The Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. - W.B.Yeats

Blackouts

rolled through the city. Whoever has an answer won’t last. Traffic muscles through. Whole families lazing on steps eating grapes. “No I’m not,” says the youngest to her canary. “You grew into your legs, Tall One, didn’t you.” Then no one. Loosed papers flatten the fences. Bits of glass rest there and burn. This part of nature runs along ridges, sprouts wings in the valleys, and wanders the world like a candle. A general steps down from his pedestal. Everyone hated that statue. She points left and says “right.” She could be an orchid. All those seen from afar moving away from the market. This part of nature breaks down the butterfly, this part of man into flutes. Flop through your branches, naked one. In room after room, your strangers have raised you. - R. Angel