Shadowed angels hover above me like dark
shimmering clouds affixed to my existence -
as his ends are fastened to my beginnings,
as my slumbering figure is clutched to his on sleepy
Sunday evenings. The angelic shadows press
down on the air around me, and their words are
whispered to me in slight delays of the clock's hand,
or whiffs of a familiar scent carried
to me in gentle gusts of wind.
Their silent tears fall, cleansing my vision,
and I can see their pure intentions, floating
across the glassy surfaces of my eyes,
tiny islands set deeply in the irises.
My prayers slip from my lips and -
in solid darkness on late nights,
when crystals form in the corners of my eyes -
are intercepted from above,
then buried in the tilled soil of a rose bed.
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