for the fabric of angel wings

Where we host our pageant treasures,
our silver coated candy like oxygen
for maelstrom outsiders gnawing
for the fabric of angel wings
dining out past curfew.
Do you think S/He hears us
in the wind between the bombs?
Marriages among the winter coats of war;
stalling in front of the dime store
to see our reflections on the way to the mob
of resistance martyrs, fighters, victims,
like the settled parting way in the sail
that all dreams die in. One on top of the other.
Like a fair-toned wheel of time’s displacement.
Like oil for fettered hams. And Sundays
for the lost noises of the apricot evening
and torn winter dresses in the morning,
after the bombs have had their way,
between us and with the smoky darlings
of Earth’s lost, familiar way.