Implacable angels follow us like souvenirs.
Some swing from the rafters of the wooden
church in the city, catch each other
mid-flight in laughter and silence.
More wander like mist the harsh streets,
touching everything, fingering and feathering the world,
inseparable from what is and what’s not,
felt like the spray of sea, lemon, fresh sweat.
They echo in unexplored places,
a sudden cloaking of wings,
a wistful sigh that cradles
like cotton, swaddled loosely,
and then looser still,
Their faces are God’s but smaller.
They won’t let you go,
they won’t let you go,
and they follow you without consolation
for as many years as it takes.