Evening Service
Look, how odd the street light through stained glass. The fading crepuscule of ecru edging toward a bruised brown and here, the dark oil patina of the Good Samaritan. Follow it down to the illuminated wound, burgundy and rum give way to pallor, and those hills where, past the mosaic, a well rises from broken stone. Across its topmost lip, worn grooves from rope burn and palm. Here she waits for him. Hair pulled back, tie in a blade of grass. Her collation of fruit long forgotten in folds. Her fragile face turned toward the road, for all things circle to water, and she believes he will come out of the amber glass, the cold lead breakers.
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