Читать книгу Alphabet Year - Devon Miller-Duggan - Страница 9

. . .& while everything else was rapt watching angels

bother the air with their wings—those

caked-on-lights’ glory/fire/stormwind: signifiers of not-

demon, surely-Other, surely-newsbringing, fear-

exacerbating (as if we didn’t tremble enough),

faint-faced, trumpet-voiced. While all that’s

ground-(maybe even water)-view, what shape messengers

halve the distance between birds (bats? bugs?) and heaven? What blasts “ANGEL!”

instead of WINGS? What intermediary

justification of bird’s being

kindles the awe of unwinged creatures

loosened from birth from the un-numinous surface?

My havoc, my hectic, my hamshackled harking: I’m

nailing questions on the innocent blue,

operating my own weighted machinery,

poring over the hagiographies, hoping for

quaver up the back of the neck; for

reentry of revelation or reverence to order:

“Susurrate the air, make liver, lungs, gut, heart

tremble recognizably.

Until tremble, until susurration, until quaver—some

version of supplication: think light into someone else’s hands.”

Why should the beasts of the air have need of angels? Their

xanthic eyes already see everything as they

zig-zag the air like feathers falling, like leaves, like messages falling.