Friday, July 13, 2018

Overread at Table 1: Poem of the Day "At This Time, On This Day, America"

At This Time, On This Day, America


These are the angels of our bitter nature:

time, they unfold their wings, and assault the sky,

caring nothing for what they leave against the ground,

not the sound of their dying afterlives, or

their good fortunes, no,

these angels are not made a little less than men,

they are made of acrid moisture

that seeps out between the foetid toes,

they are the bile that churn from the spleen

and drips out the rotten nose,

these angels are the angry noises

that we make at night to the children

that we spit on, those little faces,

that stand just outside our windows, looking in,

their tiny fingers curled around the diamond shapes

of the links in the chain,

fences that keep them forever out

and which allow us to pretend that we are all