Where is The Angel / Denise Levetrov

Where is the angel for me to wrestle?

No driving snow in the glass bubble,

but mild September.

Outside, the stark shadows

menace, and fling their huge arms about

unheard. I breathe

a tepid air, the blur

of asters, of brown fern and gold-dust

seems to murmur,

and that’s what I hear, only that.

Such clear walls of curved glass:

I see the violent gesticulations

and feel–no, not nothing. But in this

gentle haze, nothing commensurate.

It is pleasant in here. History

mouths, volume turned off. A band of iron,

like they put round a split tree,

circles my heart. In here

it is pleasant, but when I open

my mouth to speak, I too

am soundless. Where is the angel

to wrestle with me and wound

not my thigh but my throat,

so curses and blessings flow storming out

and the glass shatters, and the iron sunders?

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