Guardian Angel Dust to Dust

I enter the quiet
life through a seam
in this wall. First time I heard

your voice was a homecoming. Tell me
if ghosts speak. With a pronounced
accent? Is the language

of flowers reserved for them
the way I’ve reserved myself

for what’s left
of you? Memory is seamless.

epicurns.com

A first floor cremation
urn gallery comes to me

in a dream
where I’m riding east—

a river crosser, muse
lover—lusting for a guardian

angel who can’t be
touched. Live human flesh

before me, he must remain
straight ahead, slightly

elevated—never false.

Living Tower

Even if it was an option, it’s not 

an option 

to date your guardian angel,
even an accidental one.  You may believe 

you’ve exhausted them all, been pushed
to the edge of the jetty—rocks everywhere 

sounding off a raucous
laugh.  But the one who guides you ashore 

cannot be the one to take you 

home 

to love you in a half lit, half
darkened solar. This is more 

than semantics.  This is
a rule bronzed and embedded 

in each Noguchi sculpture
you hope to see and know you’ll want 

to touch.

You, Conduit

To pretend to be
an atheist and still believe
in guardian angels is 

this house
where I live with blinds
closed tight. To profess to live 

in solitude by choice
while scars of loneliness tattoo
my legs, my soul, is 

to give loners
a bad name, is to let myself
down root 

cellar stairs into a leaky chamber
where only humans go.

Guardian Angel with a Blues Harp

—not a lute. Storms
have passed. Acoustic mass
wraps black
and tangles up inside 

the brick wall. Some of it will seep
through. More will remain the ivy
of darkness outside 

my window. Alone, I risk 

the walk outside at night
toward a museum, fuzzed-out
guitar and drums loop
around a gallery 

on an upper floor. Alone, I imagine 

I will peer over
a cliff, will listen
for human voices amidst the ocean 

roar in Big Sur,
will hope to see an otter,
will hope to hear some small sign
that you’re out there watching 

over me without knowing
that’s what you do. I keep
my distance—solitude
is my drug 

of choice. There’s nothing left to fear.

Who’s Minding the Gap

No dead chubby child
with wings can help
me now that I suffer 

tip of the tongue spells
more than I care
to remember.  Myths 

recounted in another
language mean as much
to me now that he’s been 

pronounced
alive. Departing.
Sounds like (he) fled.