brook house 1

By Kevin Kreiger

the angel —
when it blazes like a mute
nova through the trial
of this night, through
the detritus of
portent & lapse —
the angel bears
the scent of a new world
just where the balcony
becomes mist —

of course this implies
belief, the willingness

to stand flayed,
naked, for one moment

certain there is
everything & nothing

to be certain of.
& yes, it could

just be that simple:
burden of a sudden

radiance, transcendent,
the armature within

at last driven
into abeyance.

— the angel,
seen through the clarity
of afterimage, pulse
of what was not
witnessed but
cannot be dismissed,
rips him from
the whisper of sleep —

what he saw, what he
didn’t see, what
he needs to see,

the angel that sears
through his world
can only be some
quantum truth beckoning
him back & he knows,

the way he imagines
he will know
the moment of death,

that he is once again alive.

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