Tuesday, July 29, 2014


There is the blood-red glory
Of the angels of war
The lightness of the angels of air
Of earth, of sky, of water
Of terrifying beauty and grotesquery
The cat-cold eyes of dark angels
Watching in shadow
The scaled skin of fallen angels
Burning in unrelenting sun

Let me be the angel of the dust
Crouched in the dry concrete of back alleys
Near to the ground, the swirl and churn
Of a thousand feet measuring lives
In steps on the cracked pavement
Spread-eagled in the sand
Of long-demolished houses
The taste of worn-out hopes
Fine-grit in the mouth
Puddled in the mud of faded streets
Spackled by sullen drizzle
Tired scents of stale futures
Seeping into my skin

 I gather the ashes of broken dreams
Sifted like chaff in the palms of my hands
Ghosts of long-dry tears
Exchanging kisses with old regrets
Before fading into dust.