The Silence of Angels

(after Rilke)

Angels are whispering:
(slumbering darkness hides them)
But sleep vows to reveal phantom eyes.
They whisper louder, now.

I see, in the torn pages of a book
fallen from high atop the shelf,
a distant lake filled with skeleton tears.
They whisper nearer, now.

A gnarled red oak towers over
faithful throngs of worshipers shouting aloud:
“Hallelujah!” And only the leaves remember.
They whisper everywhere, now.

Discovering the coolness of the sinking ocean,
the sun demands no explanation.
My bed is cold, the window ajar.
They whisper terror, now.

And you awaken,
the light of dawn has not yet begun.

Written Spring, 1998 |

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