An angel of war sends me photographs, black and white.
                                                          ­          I surrender, so we

chew on Floridian palms, the majesty of loons,
                             and how to capture the moon.

I've hidden his photographs behind a mask that hangs from my mirror,
                            where I spend hours rehearsing
                            how to disappear.

Eye do look on that day with anxious yearning;
                                      his epic
                                      return to the void,

because a tug of war is always easier without handling the rope,

and I cannot force his wings closed. I cannot soften the blow.
                                                 His motions
                                                 like ocean tides,

so strong and so slow.