If there is dew on the fleece only

Floating on Pinot Noir over a chrome hotel atrium
when a squawk below from clipped aqua feathers
in a black iron cage with the tall door left unchained
hints at a bobbed parrot escape with esoteric glee.

Into the sawdust smell released from a siliconed slide
of nightstand drawer, to get the grip on mitered myth,
bound black in pebbled leather with faux maple veneer
in a checkered mirthful mix of the sacred and profane.

Someone wished to fly and lost the grasp.

Someone sawed the tongue and groove in godly sweat
and it was good, someone left the book and it was good.

Someone slid the door for a blushing voyeur.

There was lavender cleaner and a tiled floral floor of dust
and someone thought that that was real real gone.