What do these
watching angels want
whose wingtips brush my skin?
In darkness sleeping bones
can feel their stare, but though love itself
unlock their tongues, whispered
glossalalial glorias are all I'd hear.
What would they say,
were not the lost language of Eden involved?
Small hours,
small mind.
Tawdry life that's more turned pages
than lived.
Yet I do not feel accused
by them, but by what writhes
to rise through wrinkled skin,
to stand with them beyond our dying stars,
beyond their mute desire.
No comments:
Post a Comment