I️ have never been alone in the pits of night
When they switch off the lights of the empire
In the unholy hour of the brooder and the drunk.
We have learned the temptation
Of a madonna’s form
Too young like sermons
At church about brimstone
Tingling up our spines.
Not worth the risk, clasp your hands.
We are saints—no,
Statues of saints
Locked up in our sanctuaries.
You say there is bold beauty
In venturing out alone,
When the streets are so glossy and bare
All you can see is your own face
Reflected back in puddles of glass.
But all I can here are the footsteps
Growing louder still