John Biscello

From the absolute hovel

of unlettered ruins,

a crabby shard,

reflecting a tasseled badge of moonlight—

this, the modest origins

to ceremony and marvel,

as she built an outlaw cathedral

of self,

in which she dwelled and worshipped,

vagrantly hospitable

to the glittering harem of angels

who, nightly,

swooped down

to carve sacral

texts of light

upon her rumored longing

to grow sheer,

and host holy fire.