the wind has so displaced the angel’s clothes,

apricot silk of tulle and taffeta.  it was enough

she did not have to speak.  the gods had returned

to disturb the ways in which we dream

and the ways in which we wake from dreams.  the gorgeous   

coverings flutter across the body.  the bent neck

and the angled shoulder extend into gauze

the hair broken free escapes the hands

we look and are ravished

would be content to stay  

entranced 

being only human.   

without ever once 

looking into our eyes

or saying 

anything  

she disappears

pellets of sounds click against each other

insistent as crickets.

they change the rhythms of the world  

into chaos again.