by Gideon Burton
It's not the way the angel startles you:
you wake to wonder how long she has waited,
her envelope of gossamer, of blue
aurora borealis, flowing, weighted;
her eyes as patient as the bright abyss
that opens, light as hair across a cheek.
It's not her message, nor the hum nor hiss
of silence afterwards. It is the bleak
and crude attempt to fix her in the mind,
to memorize the scent of rushing waters,
to set her down in symbols so confined
to pygmy pigments, syllables that slaughter.
The ceiling sinking upward as I stare;
my breath too fast to guess how to compare.
Photo: flickr - flash200
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