Angel

Are the faithful the only ones who can recognize
what they have never seen or is this spilt milk

in my sink what it seems—a ragged host
reaching out to me as if it’s not too late

but for which of us    her shape
will not hold but who knows the shape

of the abyss—it’s white like old eyes
failing and in reaching out it diminishes

shredding from the edges
towards the center which come

to find out can hold quite a lot