Second angel is not intelligent in ways you'd prefer.
He waits by the reflecting pool and folds orange paper
into boxes and boats and birds and envelopes and troubles
the mirror with these false fire gifts that sink or glide away.
He does not see the complex of miracle colors crowning him.
He believes only you can see them. He cannot believe
when he rules you the girl with no more than mirage in her eyes
that he doubles in all his lines the women who want him,
the contrary longing of his waterlogged heart foundering
in the shallows aboard his first ever fire boat.
No comments:
Post a Comment