Conventions of Wisdom
It was a witch hunt once your inviting eyes burned jade.
You’re swinging in tornados and hiding lockets in your floorboards.
You still sleep in my attic.
The floors creak with arthritis.
The ebbs and flows of your curves glowed in dark.
The wreaths of Christ surround your windows.
And pink bottles of seduction lay at your feet.
Fish scales on the altar.
A tide is coming.
And I have been too blind to see it.
© DB 2013