By the hair that rises upon my forearms
midst the long sips of water I guzzle at night,
in the way that my eyelids feel
soupy     in light afternoon sun—
messengers.
Holy proclamations
swaying down on silken webs
soliciting no answers.
Opening car doors and bus doors and train station cafes
clearing a table—that table—
announcing the arrival at platform seven—
hard to believe     there are so many of us.
Our humanity depends
on more     than sanity.

You asked me, once, what I thought
of angels
and I told you a lie.
I see them now—

boundless.

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