a register of midwestern angels
In the lobby of your first angel the walls are painted red:
A woman stands there. In the window,
where her face should be, you watch your own reflection.
But are you watching for your children wearing coats,
bringing apples to their father?
Do you remember the dionysiac homecoming
when you found the seeded core, remaining seat of adoration, left
in the pocket of a jacket, tumbled loosely like a stone
through the fingers of every forgone lover. You roll it down the sidewalk.