In life it was just another spring
plunging with trees and noon-dark weather.
Things went on from there,
But this angel’s sopped eyes are beyond
consolation, stopped with a brokenness
the living feel about the dead.
And Crivelli must have known it,
with each gray, each plum daub to the sockets.
Somewhere this angel must have
a furious double, red eyes rolling
from so much wandering and confusion
in the desert before they settled
into a sadness like winter—
all there is.
Long ago I watched birds arc
back and forth over iron tracks
outside a city, and departing that life,
I could not see my hesitation as natural
the jerking toward change and death
the charm of all that is natural.
This angel needs to flee
his canvas for a damp cave
where the hurt will not be indelible.
As he flutters into the next
day, his eyes will clear
and open fully.