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.