Tied to a chrome poll outside the high window
a small white dog yawns, waits in its purple collar.
Its grey face turns here and there in short starts—every one decisive;
and its shaggy groomed ears float-fly around its head.
Through the glass metal-clad door
enters a woman bent under a burden.
Her face is drawn down and only her mind turns this way and that.
Her eyes float in liquid and search the concrete for conclusions.
I hear of an angel flying from Montgomery.
Yesterday I flew off a bridge for a young woman.
Today the wind is coming up with its dull riffling edge
and all my collated postulates are blowing away.
On the sidewalk a young man picks up all the blown packaging.
At the light, in a car, St. Christopher falls down on the dash.
In the rear-view an angel is somewhere flying.