Landed now, the route charts a glass-wrapped tour at twenty centuries' end. Follow the maze from hell to heaven overlapped in purgatorio. A gaze, alas, will keep the thing aligned, across dear Charon's wake. Do not look back. Passages palace or warehouse, conceits the architect could not imagine, her prisms overturned.
Luster transforms repeating frames to ornament, panels replicated for acres.
Looms spun mid-weave, the fabrics hands spill beneath the glass, baskets, nets, frames, artless machines held under glass. Such wares doomed to excess the palace dissolves into vision. From outside, it melts to air, nothing solid. Something buried under the roof, like a fly under a donut dome, in this hothouse. At first, it was psychological, a monumental opening, interior without boundaries.