Stealing Angels
This washcloth is a bunched flower
Of cotton turning to silk by the dipping
Under the silver faucet.
Folds of forgotten robes, Turin shrouds
All, forms its blossoms, wet petal by
Petal-----
Rain water holy in a basin of glass…
Music wells, the songs of souls, names
In our systems, a universe on-call…..
I can’t remember all of them, angel
Thief in my wordy religion, but
The scripture’s
Leaves, page after page, pours the faces
From paint-----
So many bathed
Bodies, such consoling love, simple
In this kingdom of sighing skin, these
Cathedral cell vessels.
In the end bells & candles give permission
& there is not at all any theft-----
Angels of memory, known, unknown,
Heaven hinting, roomfuls of views
Through you & through you…
This cloth is the touch of all of that:
Behold the held.