It is through this angel, the writer speaks

“What he had yearned to embrace was not the flesh but a down spirit, a spark, the impalpable angel that inhabits the flesh.”
― Antoine de Saint-ExupéryWind, Sand, and Stars

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Being that I was a poet first, perhaps a poem to start this evening’s twilight fray.

The Sorted Affairs of Morning

I.

The evening settles up her debts
in vacant lots and houses—vacant
rooms like runways, filled with empty men.
7:30 and my shoes are dirty, from expecting
more from them. And then, when
the windows hover,
round,
and bend towards the waking street,
and vague rogue scents of cooking meat
hang in motel shadows
like post erected gallows—pyres
and boggy shallows, soft inside the moon;
lonely cries the loon.

II.

Snow comes heavy in the dim lilac silk
of East;
coffee lights a match, cigarettes and hash
browns on polished tables,
elbow heavy eyes
and rough hands rubbing weary cheeks
smile out the window, as sun begins
to hatch
another watch, another wrist
instead
of just this window, and being with the sun
without time
finding necessary
to go—
to just take the coat off of the hook and suit
the boots in feet
and wonder out the door,
where time forgets to wait—hang it’s hat
on the winter gate: asleep and still
within the dream . . .
coffee snow and steam.

III.

You stir the sheets with hollow legs
until they find their way to day,
and out of bed
wool gathering;
out from your head, your string
still sings
broken songs to folding pillows—
dreaming dreams of willows, wishing
they were willows—
outside your dormant walls.
And when you wake and find your mind
has left you for the dream, you think
an other’s borrowed thoughts:
of birdsong up the spine, and wine;
kissing goodbyes off lowered chins
licked by the tongue of one
that is not you,
but a figment of imagination:
where does this all leave you?

IV.

Souls in rented covers, making love
to rented lovers;
burning books while brokers knock
down your winter door.
Outside the nightly moon is snowing,
miming all that the daytime
could not do:

warming body under blanket,
whispering quiet things,
drinking in and looking out beyond
and home.
Not lonesome when alone.

Just alone;
home.

V.

A full man is like a midnight snow;
stars don’t know
how to be
alone.
River steam forgets it’s steam,
in seeing only river, while
above it’s head a shiver,
shaking its soul to death—it’s
dissipating heart a quiver—
the same as those in virile bed,
smoking
lives in shadow,
drawing in the dark, the river
they
cannot see,
snaking stagnant to no sea, alone
without a view (or a doubt they’ll
live forever)
dead and empty as a feather
stolen from the cardinal—
singing to sun of moments won
above the weight
of world:

alive
and owing nothing
to the heavy dues
of night.

© Kristin Reynolds 3 24 2011