she descends the staircase.
Gliding down the staggered span
in the glory of her dusky skin,
eight stiletto feet traverse
laddered elisions of architecture
not Cubist or Modernist,
but of ancient craft –
the silken scaffold of her appetite
pinned to the thorns and smoking
in the morning light.
Her shadow fractures on
red leaves, lethal arcs and angles
of the final dark geometry.
The staircase is an abattoir,
the lady sleek with murder
yet elegant in form and grace
as her swaying, lustrous home –
the cool byzantine trap that
ascends forever outward on the wind.