angel

sometimes the world gets too heavy
and grey and he'll just live in
his garden of willow trees and off-
white primroses, where the birds
never sing, and the grass never grows.

he would lick the dewdrops that dawn
deserted last night, swallowing each mouthful
carefully; then nuzzling into his own breast he would
anxiously kiss himself,
kiss himself so tenderly.

the sun could only smile slightly, as people
outside they murmured: what of love and passion?
what of death and loss? for no garden bloomed
for them; no garden would

kiss themselves so tenderly.