Another Night

The angel is hacking up a lung, nearly weeping in the shower. Blood from his cut foot smeared on the altar, the name of our city on a scrap of cloth, pictures of his missing children each with his eyes, blonde hair smooth as fog. In the shower, he is screaming about euthanasia, about money, groaning, coughing, laughing to himself, rubbing himself nearly raw with charcoal soap. Sometimes, one only knows the meaning of a word when it happens—  kidney stone    hemorrhoids    delirium tremens    bittersweet.    What was the angel describing when he told me    There was more twilight in the sound.    The angel rarely sleeps through the night—he rises from beside me like a wounded dog.      Outside, a light snow, almost December. We list between one needle and the last.