Low Flying Angels

Bluescape or cloudscape, shadow-short on oak,

Bright front yard of morning.

Sun half-full, half-empty,

Day cloudless and knowing it, day baby-blue and

Luck-blue, dove idle beyond midbranch,

First hush of rooster—

Everything is finite but the roots.

Seldom does one see the unconscious bedding— maybe

In the roses one plants for the elderly,

Or in the toes one cannot pull

From the dirt—

Still, I try, and if eyes are fingers I’ll be

Licking the warm light off them

Until I’ve broken the skin

Of the pool of myself.

It all depends on what human

You gather your dusk from,

What destiny you might thumb absentmindedly, a way

Of margin— black of the avacado’s skin—

Or marrow— black the pupil of that sun-beaten boy

In that foreign land, too soft to tell the

Tale he is telling.

Thinking of him only makes me shake.

It makes me shake until,
Sitting in that round oak, I am 
Blown loose by the wind 
Into the blue sky
Like a petal, a wish,
From this world
To itself—
Already true.