The lassitude of angels
is one thing
but how the gold got under
their skin I don’t know
I met them
in the Fields of Mourning
where there is
no morning
only the end of night
the dull gold of
transforming suffering:
what is passed on—
as milk is pain—
passed on to those
we love, becoming
nourishment, good luck
for them
Some colors
imply an ease
with indirect experience:
in the Fields of Mourning
the point of each hour
is the dream it inspires
and there
the angels hang out
limp and gold
but suddenly anxious
if told
what trembling joy
their suffering has brought.
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