a piece in the Early Gothic Hall at The Cloisters
This wall, what happened,
my view, not bad, of the Hudson—
the whole situation hinges
on perhaps.
My lovely wings, hap hap hap,
I imagine
or remember
their loveliness, feathery beyond
perfection, beyond flexibility. My fixation.
Amid museum
heel click and the incessant
motherchildmotherchild chatter
rustling like skirts, tugging
like a lifelike child at skirts
now less Romanesque, more internal—
motherly skirts, soft
motherly faces—
I feel like a figment.
Again, a voice says
the impression of life welling forth.
Stop worrying yourself away, I’m thinking,
thinking thinking is erosion.
Thinking thought-dust
is perhappening the air.
I’m living in my head,
but if I had all of myself, doubtless
I’d cluster, loiter
with the other complete angels
in a corner of this room, stanza (—where are we?)
—a togethering, a warm patience of wings.