Fervor in a radiant night crowned
by the sweet pink jasmine queen
where the bustle of thorns thread crossroads,
dogs jump the ceded latched bar,
and the first men burst into the room
believing they’re dreaming.
They see an angel crowned with roses
supported in her arms is an old dying man,
her white dress is soaked red and shining,
but she does not reach piety for a second look
because drunken violence is never enervated.
The woman says to the men;
“Put serene hands on clean air without tears
and at once return to my tumbled-down house
to look for something to cover him.”
They take a spool of twine
and leave for the road to pick up the pieces.