Listen. The angel is a sea
bridging the waking and sleeping
coasts. Her waves are dark
roses, hiding their secrets
in buds, blooming, then wilting
away from the shore. The tide
is rising early. Whose footsteps
are those hurrying towards you,
luring you out of your place
of rocks and onto the tolling waters?
Your dreams are the boat
beneath your feet. This stranger
faces you and rows towards
what neither of you can see.
The angel knows her song
is gleaned, knows it is
because the hour is so late
the attar of her hymn smells new.
The oars unlock her lullaby,
note after note, and even the stars
crowd down to listen.