Sleep in threadbare night, gray and steady
as a float of fog. God or what I call it beating
heavy in my gut. Dreaming as gray recursion,
as god weeping fog. The Angel Who is All Eyes
and the Angel Who is All Wings still know
how to speak to each other. It’s easy: they sing.

They sing! They sing!

Can’t you hear them singing? Their voices
sound just like the moon and her syrupy light.
Fog is made of dead souls hanging in the air.
It is. Do not speak to me of water vapor. Stop
telling me how to see the world. Queen of
queens, of long dark hair and blasphemy.
Of forcing the sword back into the stone.
Let’s fight the stone. Hack and slash until
it bleeds dense lunar silence. The Angel Who
is All Hair, combing herself. The soul which
grows and seethes. Flowers unblooming,
petals folding back together. They hide their
faces, roll down their stems and disappear
back into the dirt. November, the Angel
Who is All Dark Blue Evening. November
the forest floor becoming and the pale ghosts
wandering in their bedclothes and the yellow
birch trees weeping leaves as the Angel Who
is All Tears falls to earth from a storm cloud:
we call her November because that is her name.