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
My lovely wings, hap hap hap,
their loveliness, feathery beyond
perfection, beyond flexibility. My fixation.
heel click and the incessant
rustling like skirts, tugging
like a lifelike child at skirts
now less Romanesque, more internal—
motherly skirts, soft
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.
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.