there were a few long wooden days
when I used to live secluded
in a room with glass walls
worn away beyond
the sea's heel
sometimes a near-sighted angel winked at me
I had met him once
when I had the stars beneath my knee-caps removed

I was not born I was perhaps detached off my mothers shoulder blade
I had inherited from my father a glass painted icon business
trade was slack the priests were always looking
for something else

I don't remember how perhaps by chance
we met again in the same ward
at reanimation
I had been diagnosed for traces of clouds under the elbows
and the surgery for the removal of the fossils off his wings
turned out to be much more complicated

he fought back then for the butterfly implants
round the eyes
in order to ensure a better flight
he knew many things for an angel
way too many
and nothing betrayed him
not even that yellow light
that scraped his shoulders

once
a piece of mirror revealed him
and I watched as he recited in a low voice
some lines
I had written them myself with a pencil
on to the ledge of the window

a raven is soaring round me
passes through me
puts on my body
and I begin to grow feathers
some quiver on my wrist
beneath my watch
the hours are pecking themselves
the second hand the minute hand
the hour hand
the clock itself begins to flap its wings

when he read
feathers came off his wings
soughing in tranquility

I felt some sort of flights piercing my body
finding out astounded that the hours began to vanish
off my watch

today
I know nothing of him
I'm in a quiet place by the sea
the only thing that bothers me here
is that sometimes meridians breathe in
and stiffen my wings