When I Think About Angels

As I palm the glassy stem of your reckless omissions

My fingers fumble the radix of resonant mirth

And mirth’s interlude.

I buckle and swallow

Your elixir: heirlooms of

Disillusion and undulating ire.

In the hour of sanguinity I glimpse

My visage in shattered mirrors, see

Both cheeks bruised.

Still, drawers pull back to unveil crinkled parchment

To find again, and ever again, tidings tethered in truth;

Each wrought word forged in worship

For the boys I can only borrow.