Requiem

The angels I love

bicker over cod guts and snapper spines.

They joust for flounder skulls and pick the bones clean,

screaming. Their harsh, fine voices

break across my town

in a language lost to my kind,

thoughtless in the clear now of now

without death. Christ, walk down streets paved

with rain to me and you drown in my choir,

my angels beating prayer under wing

which is the want I have not loved

well. Where did my weather go? Meet me

where my hidden weather went,

where praise and rain

are never spent.