Angels fall. Heroes are falsely proclaimed.
we transform, without chrysalis: a woman. a man.
creatures of wanton flesh. hunters, of tortured need.

I’ve never been a hero, nor a poet
and my roads have been barren & lonely;
motel rooms are disposable homes.

you can’t ponder your agony when the music is
loud & whiskey flows from an endless fountain.
I wandered into a dancehall, & found my mecca.

she stumbled toward me in a jungle cat dress, sexy & shy.
she pardoned herself. when I said ‘no problem, Angel’
she stared at me as if I’d discovered her secret.

I could feel the scars where her wings used to be,
as I held her. long & hard. if it was rude, it was
justified. Fate makes no apologies.

that might have been a dream dawning, but what
could I offer her, beyond one night? she wasn’t
the type to ride my desolate highways.

the strobe lights, the beating drums beckoned her.
she swayed. she moved like a sea breeze,
and I lost her in the crowd.

dance away, Angel. I won’t find you again.
I know who you are, but I cannot say your name –
if I do, it will break me down…