Clay Mortar between the Stone.

I have learned the art of
return, beer bottles to faith, and
back to 15 desperate hotel rooms,
finalized by sandy haired maids
all yelling, all willing to take a stray in,
all love is declarative of something:
that it is monastic, and it works
the heart in its brothel, no better line
of work for something so abused, I
knew before knowing that you were the one,
I would trade in dreams for, for a good
stone walk and a garden by the fish pool,
where faith is orange and gold, and a
vine choked nasturtium, waits patiently
on a botanist, needing only a few knowing
fingers to unfurl the bindweed from its
throat, fingers with strength enough to pull
the killing thing out all the way
down to the root.