She comes to the balcony
And around the edges
She passes from curves
Into a thin blur.
The jutting towers
Of the house shelter her,
And she rebels by moving
In between them.
The basement’s golden light
Exposes her men playing
Soccer without us,
Using puppets on skewers.
At the foot of the house
I remain sitting in the grass,
Unable to enter inside
This gate of Ishtar.
The evening sky is as blue
As the walls for once,
Now the design in the woods
No longer seems so lonely.