While looking for a shaft of sunlight
with its shadows bidden to dancing
or the next retina washing hue
to strike at some quickening angle
I saw the bricks of a warehouse wall
having been well observed judging from
the names and inscribed symbols displayed
on the tattooed leather of its doors.
“I’m running out of storage,” I thought
while moving toward what must have been
set props for Juliets, Romeos
to keep from dying somewhere alone.
I’ve learned not to question why I stop.
For all I know this could have been an
unchurched child’s lone plot of Holy Ground
who stacked her shame on pallets backstage
and sauntered free for welcoming crowds
worshiping a God whose real name she
didn’t know yet who had etched hers on
the bricks and metal of his own skin.