Angels in their heaven seldom come,
now-days, to earth. I often try to catch a
glimmer of those white wings beneath the
evening star, but all too soon they fly in
long and limpid circles ‘till the dawn
arrives to turn the heavens back to sky. O
ground, O hallways where her lithe steps
resound against the sad, tired bricks
in measured time, what gravity you
must command that you can keep an
angel hanging around this place.
Listen: I’ll see if I can trace the
design of her wings and somehow tame,
in metered rhyme, the likeness of her name.