This is another piece of that sorta renga SB and I seem to be making. It begins with her poem here, and continues with "this one of mine. But if you don't want to read back that far, you should at least glance at this poem,. which is the trigger for the one below. I don't quite know what to use as a tag.
I am preoccupied with angels:
their pulse and fur, their eyes on me.
They speak in verbs. Their words
for air are furl and sunder,
for stone they say abide.
Yes, they say, we are shot through
without noticing. Yes,
the mountains dream
and waken.
They watch my daughter sleep
in a box of rags. They purr and tick
like old furnaces. The baby stirs.
Keen, one whispers,
a word that means
both cut and light. Hover, the other answers,
slow as snow, open as paper.
Wow.