with less and less voltage, the experts say. Among sibilant crickets
neglected angels pick up their cards.

They have lost their places in the book of Psalms,
though spaces in the choir

remain for them, if they can get their voices back.
The moon shines weakly on their cribbage hands.

The tallest, and acknowledged leader, whistles to the dogs
and waits for day to ripen into evening,

the shadows of nostalgia lengthening to overtake
the labyrinthine house.

Oxen stand easy, chewing in the pasture.
A tired angel stretches and yawns

and slouches to the next room to write something down
before returning to the next hand.

In a distant country, a palsied anchorite scribbles advice
to put into the mail.

Outside the powdered ruins, pale Bianca wanders in the shades,
listening for the broken fragments of a fugue.