A LATE JOURNEY
We passed the house of the avenging angel
With its parapets and ribboned trumpeters,
Purple and red-violet the color
Of their eyes. It was the hour
When dreams are captured, sorted
And released to the children born
To the damned and to those who
Wander. They are unable to speak,
Dress in cassocks and flowing
Gowns. They do not take bodies
Often as it is this dreaming
That gives voices to the winds.
We can see this in the eyes
Wild animals turn to us
When we encounter them in the forest,
Unexpected and interrupting their precision
We like to call behavior.
The stars wound round him, this lurid angel
As the singing rose around us. Lights began
To go out as stars became the evening.