When sky speaks of nearby heaven,
and the ground of human hands,
between them rests the freshest angel.
Tomorrow he has silver dollars woven through his course, unkempt mane
A lick of copper will slip across his broad hide, brushed it seems
in oil on a June’s canvas.
She was onfronted by two mirrored marbles, each a small image of herself
surrounded by an immense black ocean,
a chamber for soul.
Slight blades of tendon began to fold and fall, and free grasses
bend to the slight wind, so the muscles pull and lift and
dance in unison to become a flattened field.
Young and beautiful is the kernal underneath his stormy lids,
Like a fantasy spirit, he slides through the silky wheat
and across the open acres of heaven.
And dust coated arms, legs, filled op clothing, clotted hair and
a still word with God.