My Vocabulary

1 Minute Read Time

Photo by Sven Brandsma on Unsplash
Angel of my loves, I cannot
Anymore capture the smallest words,
Your wings as once you
Closed them upon me and night ended.
Nothing moves freely in me.
The sun’s a legend with no biography.
Bedsheets disappear into the garden noise,
Making shadows. If I were to ask the roses,
Only one would know your name.

Nothing moves without invisible consent.
And I’m not thinking of powers, but rather
Of smiles hidden, of the semen and metal
In window glass when the glare of sudden rain
Blinds it. Permit the angel, and your permission
Lifts Dante out of a dead faint. Permit
The free exchange of small words
In sleep and, as the sun rises, wings
Close upon the words, then a rose, then nothing.

Read more from Issue 17.1.

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