The angels are out of the frame
because they argue with the sky;
draping their harp string arms,
plucking their halo hair.
Below, in the secret basement,
they are celebrating the water of life.
Above, in the attic,
Leon King sleeps,
drunk.
His eyes are blurry rivers,
flooding the velvet land,
like the place where the dragon keeper plants
his spurting purple fountains.
Destination?
Darkness.