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
free.
MR
2018-0713
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