Before the angels
A church bell at the end of my rope
might better suit. I could tug it
instead of words and we could both listen
to the tolls and the tolls fading.
The world at my windows is growing fainter, too,
little by little not quite there, having run out
of hocus pocus, steam and bluster which is all it ever was.
The same faded repertoire to keep me at the knotted end;
coax me back from the cliff-edge darkness
into heavy traffic or inside the whispers and sighs
of so many naive and incoherent promises.
I have a darkness waiting for me and a depth
(I feel it), a light in the midst and so I repair, repair
with my Beloved into solitude and companionship,
mystery and resolution as the world in its wrong-headed way
keeps showing me how so very little I truly have to lose.
O child of God, lose yourself as best you might
before the angels come to cart you away.