Lady of light wrists and fingers,
lead me. I’ll follow you up unlit stairs
that creak beneath your stocking feet.
Come, Pilgrim. Aren’t you the one
who walked a year barefoot with just a dog?
Come. Drink mugs of tea, roll us cigarettes.
O Flawless Saint of Curvéd Hips,
let me hold you by your narrow ribs,
inhale the books beneath your skin.
Don’t leave your dog out there alone.
Bring him in. Let him rest.
I will bathe your toughened feet.
And I will lay you on your chest
and, from your ankles to your knees,
breathe along your slender legs.