about. The hedges
of angels above beneath behind and beside. Though we are
a little less than the angels, sometimes injured seraphim and
cherubim need our human help. If you should witness one in your
spirit that crash-lands in a haystack in the meadowlands, dangles
from a city bridge, or gathers snowdrops along the wrong road, carry
the crippled, then lift the briefly powerless to the air again.
It could be a fiery dart pierced its legs in battle or principalities tied
back its wings in flight. Or maybe it flew too close to the sun.
Sometimes in the early dawn, I’ve heard the chimes of summer,
I’ve seen an angel rise—
from where its heels dug dust.
The Room
When I think back to the room where I was born,
I can’t help thinking of that other room.
Permanent five o’clock shadow,
eye glasses tight in your dropped right hand.
You in the leather chair, plaid slippers, the unread
NY Times stacked on the nest
of tables, chin on your chest.
The Yankee game drones across airways.
The smell of overcooked lamb chop and onions,
last night’s dishes piled in the farmhouse sink—
I unlock the front door; push through each room
imagine my mother, breathing, grunting, screaming—
your brown hat and worn gloves
on the chair in the hallway.
Ben Hogan putter leaning in the corner,
waving at me when I found you.
Winter Garden
It’s Thursday. It’s snowing. It’s
February. I am spending the afternoon
with Czeslaw Milosz.
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