Look at your wings: they’re crushed, broken, snapped, they’re in oblivion. How can an angel like you fly off to Heaven, now? You ought to stay here and let I sew your wings back. You ought to stay here and let I bathe with you. … Shimmery, glimmering, glinting, gun-metal your wings resemble. Dull earth your eyes are, little rocks protrude from your skin, aye; a mess you are, Angel, and a cleanser I am, Angel.
“Slow-Diving in Atlanta” from Cold Baths, I Breathe Water by Yellow don-que MacNaveen