Angels in the Air
Morning spills sand from its bucket, a clock ticks
one Mississippi, two Mississippi.
Deserted by an outgoing tide, an afternoon
spread flat and dreary, wet with longing.
She spent years learning to silence the ticking clock,
change her voice, open vowels, add an aitch or an ing.
Now her brain cowers in my skull,
her shadow lurks at the edge of who I have become,
makes an imprint of angels in the air
in the space between her there and me here.