THE ANGELS


Shit, with grace. Plastered on walls, or casual--
I forgot my sunglasses--going back in time

   Hands smooth
in it--breathing all over the work, a seashell, horse, dinosaur,

a leaf  The air-conditioner prattles along . . .
Born, young and sleek on the beach, the smell of

   suntan lotion.
Rainwater collects in coffee cans placed in a diagonal

Three hundred sixty-five days ago
There was an amber alert when the car was found parked

   perfectly in
the shade at a well known ice cream place in Plainwell