Brother, the angels are whispering,
the wind cuts heavy off the city, down the lane,
down the gritty dungeons of Cocteau’s Orphee,
down the empty buildings of broken dreams
and ruined desires, and Brother,
the angels are whispering, whispering about the chances that are all used up.
And Brother, Chance isn’t all there is. Time set, time comes, I tear the red seal off
decision and silence, damn submission, the stale dirt in old fears,
turn East and open the window,
rip the mountains off the moon,
and I bless the flesh, the gypsy flesh,
the sloe-eyed bronze She of the Canticles and cafes.
And I call her name. And Brother,
the angels are whispering, brother, burn the tower in your heart...today.
Red shadows rise in the lines on her lips, pale sweat shines through black silk
sleeves, her arms wrap around her waist and shape, and she is all desire,
all the things the Old Testament
feared and the New adored.
Sweet kiss, sweet shores of sunrise,
and yet I hear a wooden boot heel crack
on the stairway down, dark hammer clang, and she
pulls away, one word, my name. And Brother, the angels arewhispering,
Brother, this isn’t it, not this time. Stumbling through the dream like an ether
drunken god searching for creation, howling down the wishes
that will never be mine,
tearing off my tongue all the texts
of Rilke till everything but my
Will cries out “Awake!”
and then I hear the angels whispering,
whispering about the life I’ve put at stake, the one I call my own, the one
I can’t claim. And Brother, the angels are singing, but I just can’t hear,
and Brother, the angels have touched her, pray, bring them near: I reach
through phantoms and take her hand,
lean back into the chorus
and whisper back: Confusion cripples.
Touch and you will hear. You’re right,
Chance isn’t all there is: touch and you will hear.
