Skin’s Dark Night Amy Pence


Who has time for the sodden agony of angels?
They fall, like dimes, fattened gnats
from the heavens—
                    Notice the architecture of their wings?
                    Easy and hingeless they open,
                    already plied by too many hands.

Who has time for their keening?

Like dying rabbits, they leave
trails of sound you recognize:
that old aching pressed up against the bedroom wall.

Don’t cry, someone might be saying,
don’t cry.

Who will catch these tufted, fleshy creatures
their beautiful dark hair floating
past us?

Who among you
will help me hold them?


February 2003 2River