Poem: ‘Calling All Angels’

Calling All Angels

Leaves fall like secret prayers—
calling all angels

September’s having her best
orgasm in a century. Everything lingers
in climax, the character of the light, earthy
fragrances, a whole heaving calendar week
with an arched spine.

Here’s how I know the world
is ill and absurd: a dead fawn stares up
from the roadside, spots unsullied, perfect
and gone. Most days I choose to forget, but

entire families explode in Palestine. Cascades
of leaves now. Calling all angels yes god yes