An Inn at the Crossroads

When the correlations
like constellations knit the paths
of our lives together,

our eaten hearts beat and
drink of the same well but weakly
in our wand’ring’s desert.

I speak of tavern doors
bolted before we can see the
tremor of drenched trav’lers;

of sapphires buried
under the kohl of heavy lids;
how glances steal treasure.

An inn at the crossroads
meets us with eyes rising behind
the horizon’s tether.

As silenced wind summons
in thieves, spice traders, and elders,
we, lover, greet pleasure.