The angel’s book is blue and dense and God knows the book,
which is nailed to the sky.
The angel is my friend and yet to say he has a good heart
is to be a poor physician,
for his wings are in his dodgy chest, speedy wings that beat
to a bad time.
His wings are all he’s put away. His papers sit on rock and bog
and wind and desk,
on every noun in the world, even the flimsy nouns of the mind.
We all have dead friends, but he has more, and his big book
is the chronicle of harm.
Like his heart’s flutter and his room’s clutter, this book is his burden,
and he has kept me out
using charm and guile and even lies, and I was grateful for my
I was surprised.
To know the angel is to sense that you are gone. But to love him is
what isn’t gone
like the world, the word and this angel who is fragile and who claims
no generosity, but is wrong.