You will not remember my face,
said the Angel,
in the imperium of woe,
but there are some compensations
to be had by the eye:
the cities in shadow,
the fields in light,
clouds like great ships massed
in the blue.
Oh, forgetfulness,
you only seem the enemy
from this side of the river
while I still pulse with veins,
grow cancerous,
remember my youth.
In the boat I will watch
the robust boatman steer
the miserable crowd of us
toward the further shore;
by the time we arrive,
I will have vomited
the contents of my former mind
and forgot forgetting.
Oh, Angel, I thank you
for letting the light seem
something other
than a rank intrusion
on the dark.