The angel begins as burned, a flash of vision then nothing into flight. Your wings a substance I favor, some color of after thought laden with hints and acclimations. Never the kindness, but the levity of every wish denied followed your star, fallen and left to some apothecary claim. There once, and never again. Your absence the only count of forever.
Why the width of this evasion? Why the clock unwound of grammar and the ant line history always wallowing on? I look towards the poem and always find the prayer. I find that flag unfurling, planted there first in longing. The tears allowed of every old sad song, the old sad singer oblivious to the truth. All the work of wanting such a song, only to have it all made up before you ever arrived. Somehow the ideal is always the way we unyieldingly wander. The fright that allows us relief, the ghost of never would be.
So you soar in every sunset, in every night bourn in joy recalled. The ribbon of the road at midnight. The meeting every leaving seems to mind. It is the hex of reflection, the orchestra of careful mistakes. That turning of meaning inside out to mean it. That shocking revelation that there is really a real. That stain of memory in the way you wear me, that I can only know you as insistence, certain in every way. Cold water slips over warm flesh. Everything left is miracles and the rain.
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