The Brooklyn Rail

The angel Michael has sold his wings
and the double ring of his name.
He no longer listens to kings,
nor pursues the flame of his fame.
How terrible to see that face
without the grace notes of his faith;
how horrible to see that space
bereft of his presence and breath.
A dozen lines go through his head,
accents he thought he left behind;
he feels the apprentice’s dread
of words that he can never find.

      *

These soft stones dance at night;
the day goes red with longing.
Who here speaks of belonging?

      *

Solomon thinks that a slight
tremor of air he feels might
shape the latent melody
of God’s probable body.

      *

Hannah keeps her Sunday
skirt in a camphor box,
a small desert display,
a perfect paradox,
pious and quite profane.
Guido says she has lain
too long with all her clocks
set to love’s time, the stray
confusion of peacocks
left alone in a subway.