from “Flatirons” by David Yezzi

It’s when we are most engaged with other things

that the angel enters, a twist in temperature,

a lightness in the chest that we call wings.

Giddy with sacrament and the impure

gluttony of blood and air and skin,

we look with panoramic eyes to where

the earth curls under and the sky begins,

though we ourselves are of this light-shot air,

senses extending without obstacle,

reaching past by rooting down through rock —

obdurate kindness, heaven’s windowsill.

We are as useless as an open lock, 

more insubstantial than a drinking song,

and marked by sandstone long after we’re gone.