destroying angel
by Fran Lock
this delicate supremacist, our cipher. tonight
under the fractioned moon, we wait. we are
waiting. for the angel, rankly warriored out
of soft ground. or the long, expectant trench
of the year. an angel, yes, the melting stench
of him. how the mouth is swollen with moist
pique, and the spade splendours into pale
down, dewy with rot. o, groggy polypore, u
break beneath intrusion’s tread. but spread.
the air is lustred with rancid spore. we have
been waiting for the angel. angels, basin
saints, stooped in stale light. these teutons
of the timberline. will spit their felons’
absolutes. wetly, and in the wake of rain.
cloyed into columns. railing, weakly. do
not be deceived. the ragged wood will
cup the sluggish threat of them. a sword
raised in waltz-time. is growing. has
grown. the angel is here. sloughs off
its cataract of white gold. now the mouth
is bruised open. the world, transfigured
brittlely. bitter rusk of wing. fool’s web
funeral bell. angel, over everything.
