On a shoe lace, round her neck,
she wears the seven names of god,
engraved on silver and gold plated:
Heaven rests between her breasts.
An elastic band holds back her hair,
to form a halo, less angelic
than the dawn pink curve of wing-
shaped lips, while sacramental sips
of beer give a stained glass hue
to eyes of many colours.
She borrows my old leather jacket
and folds the sleeves up against the cold.
I play the bad samaritan
and walk her home, meandering,
with my hands in sacred places.
Jesus, please, let her not be a tease.
