if only

… somewhere – a
soft-skin forearm, perhaps,
- a breast,
even –
on which to rest my head.
But then,
even if
head-resting there,
and though the air might be pensive
for a while – giving – then it would
restless and crease, and
there’d be something
chiding. Angels
don’t lie on the grass and let themselves
be a pillow
a pillow for your head.

But I – yes, I
can be an angel – I can
wrap my wings around you – feathers
flayed -
I can hold you, talons
tight,
tight around your waist,
and fly you up –
through the clouds
and the pearl glow
and lay you on a cloud bed,
where you could recline
supine,
and I, we
would steer with sail wings
to the ocean,
and there, mid-sky, we would
hang over the curved and seeping
edge and see the dolphins
racing,
bottle noise to opal tail,
beneath the stillness of the sliding sea.

I am not there. I am
here –
here in the café, in the song, in the street, in the screen,
in
the moment, in the white noise and
the rustle. And with muscle-hawsers
loose and slacking,
my head sways,
sways on its rocker,
all nerve-dream, all silent speech ... all forgotten.