The Loss II

What passion does an angel feel 
with its white hands and 
blue blue eyes that 
touch the horizon of eternity -

cut its hand and 
it will not bleed, its 
angel seed borne 
on the wind to

sow the breath in the 
trees where the tiny birds 
breed their young 
and one blue egg

holds the curve of a universe 
in its fragile arms - easy 
to breach, easy to 
break, and their soft and

gentle breath in the 
mouth of the dying as 
they sigh the energy 
away until it floats, pale,

glittering in the sunrise
of a new day
in a new place
where only the angels can

and the soul of us 
billows light and 
passionless as we 
lose our touch and our

hearts break
to know the difference -
in paradise we
mourn the loss of skin.

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