The angel runs wild on my face
The angel, on my heart under a sheet of music from the sidewalk café
climbs into my breath with a gasp.
The angel grapples my ear to ascend with la verdad under
an awning
(of pale and dark faces)
She touches my arm knee thigh. With accent of speech my journey
to this town of domes on the plateau of my tongue the commandment
draws me to embrace her for the space of a song.
The angel dances
my throat feet chest lips arteries and fingers in her hair.
Worlds are motionless around us
TIME collapses from the was and will be into a single instant of clarity.
The angel rises
from the chair on the patio crooked to greet my pulse
a throb of sharp trumpet note tempo.
To the angel
from my astonished mouth, words that tumble the tall bells
form the shape of pews to kneel for our communion, the celebration
begins, the life of my father has passed into a closed book.
The angel brushes my beard with her scent
(of Sycamore)
hurries the blood to my stomach, my eyes;
she ravels me on her forearm, returns me to the city
by the supple light
of the oldest and deepest lake.
© 2009 Victor David Sandiego
