Morning. I watch the windows come to light—
each according to ability or need or willingness—
in my east-facing living room. I wait.
Too soon this time will pass. Minutes from now
today arrives, I’ll have to be one man
to my wife and children, everyone I meet.
But now the windows’ musics no one hears
but the angels passing for their moments
across these panes. Let me count them.
How many can I number Heaven as it transpires
I say to the third angel, the one I pull down now,
the one who blesses and is blessed
with fire dancing on the page, invisible,
the heat I’ve taken into my fingers, tongue—
tongue, fingers, angel-light, blue windows turning gold—
how else might I go out against the world?