That morning was an event of some sort.
The bare arm of the sky extended
slowly, its turquoise-veined
skin turned down to the earth,
the sun rising in its palm
in lazy expectancy of something.
A little snow slept between the grasses.
Windows, blind with steam, dismissed
the dark of the house.
Nobody came home anymore,
nobody knew how to remember.
That morning, she wasn’t aiming high,
only trying to keep her breath
going in and out. She thought
the color of the sky was strange
but not the angel with a hopeless smile
in the mirror, trying
to discern his own darkness —
for she had grown tired of miracles.

The angel sat in the middle of his own
mystery, ignoring his role.
There was no trace of exaggeration
in the beating of his wings,
only his eyes were full of language.
“Aren’t you the Angel of Death ? ”
she asked. “Haven’t you bathed
that morning in pure cold light
for my retreat ? ” Nothing
like that”, replied a black
flutter. “I’m here to see you arch.
You, poets, claim so often
to be dying of desire. Now,
in these brief rays of gold,
bend for me. Turn me on. ”
She smiled gently. “Little believer,
you little unbroken thing.
Poets are such phonies.
We often have wise insights
but we don’t live by them at all.
I’m a mess. From dawn
to dusk, I haul a desire of dying.”
The angel stared at her lips,
scarlet, in the mirror.
There was no lie in her fire.
Their souls passed
one over the other. Desire
of dying — Dying of desire.
No one knew anymore
who was the angel,
who was the poet.

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