Classic Poem

For Peter S.
I saw the shrouds of prisoners
like baptismal gowns
buried outside the cemetery.

On the canvas frills exhaled
singed wool and cardboard.

The angels arrived as lace.
Took notes, then stuck. Awful residue
from a small cut.

•

The veil has been ripped from the skin
where it was burned in.

The skin is the veil, the baby-material,
imprinted on, as if
one dropped the handkerchief
and it was one’s wrist.

The cuff is frightening.
Stuffed onto oil.
Water-stains might fence its ghost in.

•

“The barbed wire complex”
I understand.
Winged and flattened
at the same time, poor things!

Some leftover specters of blood.

Remember Blake’s figures like columns
with heads

looking around for God?
When events are not as random
as they seem.

•

The article of clothing
is only half there, it’s not full,
but when it falls forward, it is.

Terrible emptiness of the spread
neckline and little sleeve.
Half-cooked squares.

Was this religious fire
and is this where it passed?

Maybe they are floating on water
of paint, pool-sized,
blue and ridged like foam.

You would have to fly
to see them flat as a map.

The rib and hem. Rained on
for eons. Noah’s children’s
floating forms.

•

Angels die?
It’s a frightening-miracle
because here they are.
The Upper God

has let them drop
like centuries into space.

And I recognize them!