She stands at the window in red briefs and a black tank top,
lost in a revirie of city grim and golden morning light, deep in light.
A shadow, a breath, from an unknowable place reveals outlines of
her silver, gossamer angel’s wings. Reveals her divine spirit and light.
That smooth mess of long brown hair catches the last stars
and they’re fading light halo her head, pronouncing her the skies queen.
Passion and lust and simple love crash through me, still half dreaming in bed.
The stars and dirt that make me can shape these disturbed things into paradise.
The train horn wails like a weeping ghost or a banshee fortelling death to come.
Morning is here and the starlight idyll must end for the real world we can’t leave.
I get up, my feet cold on the hardwood floor, pimple flesh crawling up my arms and legs.
I get up and wrap my arms around her middle, kiss the nape of her neck, inhale her scent.
Wishing I could pull her back to bed and we could make love in this perfect morning,
in this cold apartment in this crumbling city, in this absurd and sweetened life.
She pulls away, kisses my cheek, and strips to get into the shower and start the day.
I strip too and join her, carefully, reverently washing her shoulder blades,
for they hide her wings, her magic, her lighter than sunlight magic that pulls us up
to someplace better than the world that shames and breaks us and drains us without end.
Pale flesh reddened by the hot water, her eyes closed in gentle reverie, remembering
what the sunlight showed her, and what glories come in a shared morning,
when you can still love, still walk deep into light, and know what’s born in skin
can still touch the stars and leave these chains of corrupted carnality behind.