They come with an odd self-possession.
They arrive almost waltzing in aloofness.
They surround me with eyes so weightless
that cradle my despond in wordless glances.
They don't come for lovemaking and passion,
as least not the kind that leads to a melting.
They come into my sleeping dreams helpfully,
and I enjoy their eccentric merciful company.
How kind of them to enter a sad falling dream.
What a miracle to see one angel in particular.
Sometimes she drifts into a dim room.
Sometimes we sit on institutional steps,
outside where many strangers are moving.
The space is always filled with odd meaning.
Yes, she sits beside me on the pausing steps --
half-felt symbols of very different elevations.
Steps urging a dubious fate on dense streets.
From distance come gestures so subtle.
She lingers with mercy and friendship.
Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck