If only there were a renegade angel
whose task it were to gather lists
of love letters un-sent, kisses un-spent,
wisps of longing tightly spooled,
who'd transcribe onto his sleeve
in fluorescent calligraphy
a calculation of human heart-ache,
until, utterly forlorn, be compelled
to reconcile these heavy accounts,
to swoop unseen over a people provoked,
and sprinkle snowflakes of quiet comfort,
to transform armaments into bread,
and turn rows of ready-made coffins into beds,
undoing the deeds of one with another's intent,
I'd hold vigil at my window until he passed by,
and beg him to relieve me of my burdens,
letting his celestial caprice be my sole delight.
In absence of angel, I turn to this page.
I let you go, but you remain where devotion lingers with leaf-curtains drawn; and dreams gather in pools of verdigris; where c...
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