Wednesday, August 19, 2009


And him, O him, who won us once
descending from the room -- who fell
despite himself like pigment upon the city’s grid

to name him now remembers only dust,
who carried himself vacantly
from sky to skeleton, a good man

strange, though, to render the speck of him
whole, for a habitat endlessly lensed,
him was an angel of sorts, an insect

to our skyline, and we, the blur
fogging nearby some enfacing window,
whose lives till then had arched towards a dream,

a stranger, all along, he had been,
attending a wholly different time,
for us he tended to, a ghostly novice.