She lay in ruins,
structurally unsound.
The jungle encroaches
on all sides now.
She put a hand to her hip--
Chartres' flying buttresses--
and pursed her stained glass lips.
The bend in her knees,
blended of tension and fatigue,
form a peculiar ogee.
She was starving for light.
You could tell by how her breath
froze beneath the lintel of her lips,
She was much larger
than the life she borrowed
from the cosmic debt of time and space.
She was much more shallow
than the deep well of her eyes.
She had translucent beauty,
facade of marble white
clad on structural steel.
Skin on bone.
She
was
your
home.
