seizing the steps

scuttling

third angels on the waterways

a foam goes through trees

upright

a stream of clouds

like a mask the turn of head is not giving up

but slipping off,

sensing the limits of a vertical.

any old angel speaks infected and dusty

there’s that place where

a wish was won without seeing

listen, in the carapace an enigma of stripes is

an engine, a windmill, from the brittle wings

of an old angel crawling in light