She doesn’t go to the obelisk

Perhaps happenstance patterns
to the last general
will denote Her way
we might not find Her
among the salutary limbs
of strewn southern gates
like a paddle that rows in three directions
or a malcontent waiter ending the scene
where the director’s storied caustic persuasion
did not matter to the ailing audience

do not go
into scared pauseways
like it was a triumph
but enter dominant restraints
like it was the last stand
of sheets and razors
and zero-sum passages
where arrows did fall
baked salvation
into the home-rendered hallowed retreat
from cities of abrasion
and turncoat etched weddings

frightened frigid stops
of carousel Ghatanji robes
sing under periscopes
under defense stones
like abstractions of emotive bonds
that dared of recoil from God