April 23, 1994

Seven of them— not entirely in view—
angels ascending to grapevine heaven—
such treasures hold their shoulders just as
if they had heads or necks to crane on the
lower right of the Winged Victory in the Louvre.

Seven move upward in a light powder blue sky
through clouds turquoise— lavender-like feathers
like smoke— like liquid in very cold flame. Vines
become spirit— terribly cold, yet they refrain from
shivering, quivering. They fly, like paper airplanes—

Wafting, floating— thin, ethereal with spirits’ shapes
cut space— remarkable peculiarity— their limbs,
branches have utterly different shapes proportions—
one lilts to the right— another twists, curves its left limb,
yet another, lifts its right appendage, as if waving to motion.

Another— spirits in relationship to one another—
not when we leave earth— we abandon interconnectedness.
Perhaps angels encircle something. I think not—
when we leave our dirt domain. What happens?
No longer rooted— we vaporize like wine from grapevines—

We enter into the spirit realm. Roots no longer extend
into good brown dust for nurture shapes—shadows
angel vines live as sheer expression— dancing drunk.