Archangel
Archangel, scent of starfire on the lake,
Cultivator of boatwood, aura-bearer
Of the chart-hands and ocean—seers—
You are hereby declared unfit for office.
We have climbed the titan of your shoulder
To slay the feathered things of your back
And cast the shrapnel into radio waves.
We have spanned the colossus of your brow
And quarried your corneas for telescopes,
Planted in the empty gods of your femurs.
We have unwound the pigments of your hair
But never found the calculus of heaven
As the colours died grieving the distance.
Archangel, water-light of old galleons,
Waste of your unmaking falls back to us
Until you are known only by the ripples
Of that same water; cobalt-orange
Like a sunset remembered from a distant
Continent, or a love left unspoken,
Or a language made to speak of horizons.
You are forgiven, unanointed beast,
For thinking we needed more than your body.
You are forgiven for thinking you were enough.
The ruin of your face redraws the cantos
That first woke you from the nothingness,
And the last powders of divinity
Melt on the dimming light-blade of your tongue:
Envy of the beetle pyres. Envy them their churn.
Envy of the nebulae they build and shroud and burn.
Envy the mycelia. Envy them their dross.
Envy every constellation made of dregs and loss.
Envy of the comet-falls. Envy them their height.
Envy as their yaws undo the stasis of the night.
Envy of the frogspawn. Envy them their mire.
Envy as the clot grows limbs to pull apart the briar.
Envy of the lunar lamps. Envy them their caste.
Envy of the shapes that know the light will never last.
