Angel

17 ANGEL Angel on this broken street is dressed to the teeth. He has his dignity. Under the dove gray fedora there's a wage slave out of work. He has his dignity against a wall. And under the wasp-waisted shirt, extravaganza of black volcanic glass crusht in daisies ay! there's the merest rib cage, bird bones of winter, a sallow angel And in the quick brown eyes like worry beads that cannot read, 18 and the fingers with their walking stick, which is really a weapon that cannot writethere is the bonfire of poetry Angel is a slave out of work. Someday he's going to kill someone. His small hands have flown at clouds, sick with blood with glass banks shimmering in distance, the sharp stink of weed, stone throat, star sapphire flash and rush of cops... Graffiti choke the street, blaring off these walls... 19 Angel in flames will blacken the sky ...