Angeline Williams
Transfiguration
Dawn is a torn eye, spilling its whiteness.
The fields blister. This is a transfiguration.
The smashed mouths of houses gape, uncomprehending.
They are passages into the old world -
Settee and chairs, a blank television -
They will forget them. Outside is amnesia.
The fog disseminates its spores of silence.
Snow stars, white atoms
Blanket the houses like a kindness, a sheet drawn up.
The stillness holds as liquid, incandescent.
The motes stream from it, pitching light from their glass
hearts.
The long roads shine. They await angels.
Page(s) 30
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