Sight
The truth is, all angels are blind.
The world intimates itself to them
by feel alone: grass under fingers
or a cool wind pouring over skin,
trickling through hair. They only
navigate by following rivulets of
feeling like Theseus's gold yarn.

You and I, we're bound to earth
by the burden of our eyesight.
The future a threadbare bridge
extending before us, teetering
over chasms of silent nothing.
The past a garden of mirages,
a caricature 1960s of fantasy.

An eternity of you and me feels
stretched out as a satiated cat
yet I have seen the night skies,
studied the incessant shifting
of stars to a more comfortable
position. The heavens ordering
change down below, in short.

Still, I won't surrender my eyes,
not for shock-white Athena and
all of the secrets shimmering
under the surface of bird song.
Niether of us are angels, but
that connection percolates through
the sordid set of all things real.