Angels, the secret animal,
have wrecked my heart with love.
In grey Chicago angels
bright as Mars
flit from tower to tree.
I see them outside the windows of the el,
I see them on the tops of buses, and there -
look! – above the frozen lake,
swooping, playing some inscrutable game.
At night they come to me
and remind me that I am lost, but that I
am being looked for.
Bright angels, plundering my secrets,
scattering them
across the floor –
I am reduced to nothing
before their careless and relentless mercy.
I must be quite saintly
or very devilish
to attract these winged messengers.
But I am neither and still
the angels.