The Undersigned --

not here, stitched with

close threads, your

eyes surrounding your heights

of misuse, your governing

moments

of time allocated -- These

the tears

in the wind alerting

us

of a change

in

the weather, a

state of mind

not quiet

or alarmed but sudden -- She

was the definite Angel

with burnt wings

from

flying too close to the sun, her

backward

glance at us sustaining

our tempo, keeping

the beat, a

value

incoherent but alive, the

mist

in the hills

now

vanishing . . .

*