Asylum Angels

August 20, 2006

Belief in the moon,
     where we end
    abated and objecting,
    cold distance setting inch upon historical inch.

We hastily practice solitude,
     overcast angels in sheepskin jackets,
     limiting the rolling offenses
     unpaid to Sacred Support.

We are fainting angels,
     angels, cold and distant,
     wrapping flies in bullets,
     the sung grave unconcerned.

Cease wont, asylum angels.
     Awaken Atlas and flee cleverness.

A White Box

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