Until the Sabbath I am only a creature of exhaustion.
An Angel of Long Days.
It's yellow out this evening, and my stomach is hollow.
I hold a lump of clay up to my lips and inhale.
In yellow light below the ground, each long day,
I lose sight of the sun and think it nighttime.
I emerge into the humid evening, stomach hollow,
And creep toward the meeting place of the huge angels
Who will carry me home in their careful mouths.
These counterfeits sometimes make me sad.
I long for the unstoppable ten-ton iron angels
That burrow through the ground in Boston and New York City.
But they don't make angels like that here.
Personally, I blame it on the Christians.
Their angels are of the watchful variety, standing, taking notes
To bring back to their father later.
On the weekends I sleep
And I look for wild angels in the woods
Where sometimes they spring up like mushrooms on lightningstruck ground.