The clothes angels wear…

StairsThe Clothes Angels Wear
I dream of children walking up and down stairs,
up and down, up and down, in brightly colored
clothes, deliberately and unlike the way they
do when on stairs, but it’s not a dream at all;

when Jacob dreamed his dream of angels on
a ladder ascending and descending to heaven,
not from heaven as I’d expect, he thought
nothing at all – no decoding repressions, no,
he wrestled an angel and lived, dreamless;

the couch tells us they’re divine messengers
and always from above where they live
because we incurably desire a god, a message
we call truth, but it’s all wrong because
they’re just like us, always from below
climbing up and down; then the children stop,

then the children stop,
and laugh out loud, the bright colors of the
clothes we dress them in melt together
like rain is washing away a disguise, melting
into earth’s brown–dark, so dark it’s blinding,
they lift their eyes up into the nothing and grin
in a pure gratitude which embarrasses me;

and when I look down at my own clothing it’s
bright and colorful and new; if this is a delusion
I can’t explain it because I don’t want to.


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