This transitory home is domicile
To gas lamp buildings lit like bric-a-brac—
And, blazoning scripted signage, its track
Of squiggled neon sings its beacon style.
Backlit by night, the city’s surge decrees
The surf and wash of California dusk
And beauty visits with a thousand vacancies.
The hotel’s silent windows blindly ask
The passing sun to make each pane a bed,
Each frame an invitation and each sill
A resting place where passing fancies perch
Like gulls that gather faith in wind to spread
Their wings. So San Diego’s pilgrims will
Divine each door a way, each room a church.
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