Monday, May 10, 2010

Another letter poem written quickly on the train

Dear Fallen Angel,

Was it such a falling, coming down from the heights, was it cold
in the citadel: spires of ice and ceaseless
light, the chorus
of seraphim as enthusiastic
as birds in the hedges
once upon a spring morning, but a thousand
times as beautiful--was it such a falling, dwelling
as you do, an exile in a city that embraces shadow
as well as the sun. In the corner bar, you have not
slept and you have not
shaved, and you remain the most handsome
person in the room. Bourbon sings
like a sparrow, it tastes in a diluted way
faintly of heaven, but here it has temptation,
amber tones, and fire. This is a place
where you can look straight ahead
and see your reflection and likewise the image
of your fellow
barfly, who regards you with his earthly hunger, really
for you it is all about the ledge, and the leap, and after,
listen, he is about to offer to buy you a drink,
we know what he means: it was cold
in the citadel, and he wants
you, and we're falling.

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