I fled the tall cinderblocks,
And the eyes of smooth glass
That house a prison of computers and copiers.
I fled the grids of dirty pavement, and the streetlights,
And I came to a sea of grass.
The city in my mind slows,
And I am still enough to take in a butterfly-winged breeze,
The whispers of the grass.
I pillow my hands under my head,
Close to the Earth and her mother-sounds,
Gaze up, up, to pretty, white puffs.
The angels are playing in the sky,
Making animal shapes – one after another – a lazy competition.
In the city, they watch, stretched out, too thin,
Or, frightened, menace downward,
Dark frowns and wings.
The sick wheezing of parking garage doors and coughing engines;
They cannot let the thoughts of such sickness rise past the tops of the cinderblocks, to
their delicate world.
Sometimes, they cry.
In my sea of grass, they come down soft,
And cry tears of harmony, to release so much emotion.
But there are angelic tears of fear and loneliness in the city –
The people there infected so often with these diseases.
I lay under the clouds, so far from crying,
And have no need to dream.
The angels let go their cloud shapes…wings of blue invisibility.
High-pitched, tinny notes ring into my head,
And I open my cell phone to a voice full of love and mischief,
As I bring my head up from Earth’s murmurs.
I wave to the sound of angels’ wing beats against the sky,
And run down to the arms of a city-boy with angel eyes.