Osta

She says a dawn novena, and worries about her feet, dancing who will see her, love's a trick to trap her, not knowing her own to keep, or equipped for street scenes, every tune makes its mark, bars fuel her sole conceit, blonde singers and wood yards, they rise to greet her, but when morning turns green, she prays alone forever, wondering if there is a heaven, more than any depth of need, betting is always evens, perhaps with a communion beat, maybe a retreat, she can rescue everything, that makes her dream.