sometimes angels arrive,
unannounced, unbidden, enunciating
news of signs and visions,
weighty as the gold chain
sewed within the hem of
a skirt of palest lavender knit from
fine wool that, nonetheless, goes
swoooooosh, billowed out
by a wind gust while
traversing some orderly midtown avenue,
swallowed by grey and glass,
goldleaf safely beyond
the reach of sticky
fingerprints, the small, still
voice of the divine heard in spite
of the grinding of tires upon
grates, metal plates, the
occasional manhole explosion,
the interjections, interruptions, interrogations,
and soot falls like snow
upon her cheeks
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