In the Paris giftshop
the one deep wing
of the vermilion angel
lanced the outer dark.
Outside,
draping olive lines
scattered and resolved
abstractly as trees.
The world was
filled with
incompleteness.
Back home,
with the second wife,
the night was fragrant
with barbeque,
nicotine,
& vetiver.
Having no direction,
I drifted into
the smoking rain.
Years later
there is an arrival
that thickens like glass,
a transparency,
a screen that flickers.
It's her, and
she's red-orange too.
An investment,
a face in gold leaf,
a pale labyrinth.
This time,
years later,
the deep wing
is a drifting veil,
and the olive line
connects us
like boardwalk string.
The glow of the glass
is a resolution.
The Winged Nike
of Samothrace
is installed inside me:
first the anxiety
of the reach,
straining for more.
Then the frozen music,
the perfect shape, even
with pieces missing.
