The Last Poem


Who among us
is that angel,
the true angel, 
the delirious

breast, undressing 
like fall
in a garden, leaves
falling, wings

too.  This angel
who comes back
like a thief
running in circles--

the unseen
reflection of a bird.
The lit angel,
the snow driven

past the window,
past these letters,
coming into words as if 
through bloody thorns.