The Black Angel

Where are the people as beautiful as poems, As calm as mirrors, With their oceanic longings -- The idler whom reflection loved, The woman with the iridescent brow? For I would bring them flowers. I think of that friend too much moved by music Who turned to games And made a game of boredom, Of that one too much moved by faces Who turned his face to the wall, and of that marvelous liar Who turned at last to truth. They are the past of what was always future. They speak in tongues, Silently, about nothing. They are like old streetcars buried at sea, In the wrong element, with no place to go . . . . I will not meet her eye, Although I shall, but here's a butterfly, And a white flower, An the moon rising on my nail. This is the presence of things present, Where flying woefully is like closing sweetly, And there is nothing else.