archangel

brittle teeth born of the streaming light
open breathing holes in the plastic sheet
standing like blue windscreens
and the hair on the back of my neck
there are stars that can only be seen in the movies
there are molecules of sound that rest in your ears for a lifetime.

when winter comes, we start to lose our skin, we start to catch fire
hollow bones that are lighter than air rattle in the rafters
as we wait in the street for the shaking to stop
an honest day's work begins when you want it,
an evening of lies, whether you want it or not.

there is a small child on the lawn,
cold as a mushroom in the fall grass
pulling at the grass with automatic fists
bring the plates to the table, the child to her mother
bring fire down from the sky, and dig at the street with shovels
around our heads buzz flies and mosquitoes, messengers of mud,
milking the earth like a bloated udder hanging in space.