walking home

i pass through golden gates

of softly beating wings -

the fluid murmur of a pigeon

splashing feathers in pools of shade,

bathing like a swan in the sidewalk -

and the tantalizing echo

of something brutally sacred.

.

and sure enough,

there she is again,

always watching, her

face aglow and shameless, holy;

ivory marble of Agra in the twilight,

damnably hard to ignore.

.

she doesn't miss a trick, that one.

.

so here's me:

in the middle of a long pull

i thought to hide,

mouth to the bottleneck,

cheeks wrapped in roses

freshly stolen from a lawyer's garden.

.

i confess, i feel guiltless -

for the gate was left open,

and nothing's more compelling

save a gate still closed.