Sunday Night Fever

She fell Tuesday,
the night street splashed,
a crater cradling a smooth stone
     statuesque.
A monolith carved by Costa after
     being redeemed.
She was painted
     by the Sistine artist himself.
Olive walls and a door of Ivory
     prepared for passover.
The two emeralds shown so deeply
     naught but greed was incited.
A chestnut bushel of silk draped
     atop a summit entangled my fingers
and entranced my senses by the smell
     of the holiest anointing.

Alarmed, but only at my obliviousness,
for not until I graced the plume was I told-
     I was-blessed.
My fire tipped spear hailed an Ecstasy
   to prove St. Theresa cold.
Handfuls of feathers concocted sins,
     not even Bernini's chisel could carve.