Angel divine,

read here these words that time

has stored away

in the lips

of the temple.

The shrine of her tongue

has dripped away

the last of woman’s charms…

I am defiled

beside the water

beside the waving arms

of Shiva.

The moon

is cynical and forgotten,

with clouds a-wisp

about her pale armor…

her sheen is thick

with the milk-dew

of skies.

She is mountains,

curled chambers buried there

are warm with white

and warm

with the dust of lore

long forgotten.

Manifestations of stars

cradle her

with silky blazes of light,

a melancholy strain of wind

is crooning through the sky,

as though an ode

of pale disillusion.

I am the bridge

between the atmosphere of Heaven

and the cellulite of my hotel walls.

Goodnight,

sleep

tight,

the moon is the bride

and the wall of her thigh is warm,

in the hotel of love.