draft, untitled

i.

the church
is a spiral
of ivy
sinking into
a sepulchural
sleep

an angel weeps
but her tears
frozen by the ages
have long
turned to stone

her eyes are open,
fixed at some far off
point, but i turn to her
still, in a gesture
of sympathy

ii.

it seems i have lived
in more hotel rooms than i can remember
plush as sin, in the arms
of a stranger or fleeing from
unseen pursuit. doors open,
and close, folding into each other,
more and more doors
more rooms to feed upon
a labyrinth: inescapable,
sinking into mahogany
and decadent carpeting
i am hiding behind a desk,
escaping to the bathroomwith You,
You, i cannot name: i must know you
we must have met somewhere,
perhaps in a coffeeshop
conversing about existentialism and art
over our steaming styrofoam cups
why else would i follow you?