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Our inmost angelic being given to song that we may hear in all our desolation.
Chafed sticks forested--lunar silver
threads tied them up as to bundle
with conviction.
An angel gone rare loaded the
forest upon its back...slumbering
birds shook awake midway to
heaven.
Played through the angel's
lattice of light, their throats the
musical prodigy of their carrier.
Darkness went off the air--static was
the break of a pieced together
sound barrier.
The earliest rustles of echoic being
ran down the place all spaces meet.
Such uplift is not imaginal, but the
all-encompassing care of...things
trying the patience of their mold.
This is the desolate you...day long
giving birth to the search party of
you...that rare angel shaking free the
residents of desolation midway to
heaven...for a song...just fine with
spending itself--you on you.


Konstantinos Mark
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