The Tabernacle

                                                                    For Laura, in that wonderful darkness, my love.

Not a mushroom, man, her name is misspelled.
High above,  a white pigeon sits on the facade.
Wrought iron keeps coming around amidst the steady
Gathering of long hair, not in my eyes, in my mind.
Inside:
It seems to exceed itself, dreamy, beckoning compartments,
Dark colors, psychedelic, dense, working hard to remind me of another time...
 But here is a smoke sponged couch begging us for sweetness.
Yes, a sweetness, brought up from the floor below,
The standing floor, not the killing floor. Where phone talk circled
And the music cantered, where attention took a diet,  and suffered.
The crowd, a great mouth opening, let us dance alone in that
Dark warm space, a folded pocket knife, you and I,  that close.
Grace Potter's voice,  Grace Potter's organ.
Were we alone, truly alone,  the only prayer,
The only vow, there in that sanctuary?