sometimes when you're not looking
I crawl down beneath
the floorboards

beneath the rotten wood
and pretend
I am an atrophied angel

blown clear from heaven
on a fierce
and mighty wind

having landed by the north
entrance of the bridge
by the creek

where the old man
who is not really
a man at all

but a pair of old
overalls sewn
into the gravel road

removes my wings
and places them
upon his feet

which are not actually feet
but a pair of old hymnals
long since forgotten

by the church used now
only to prop windows
to listen to sermons

about obedience and regret
about the atrophied
hands of Christ

used as paperweights
by fugitives
to avoid drifting

deeper into the black hole
the black hole
that was once a puma

a puma without any legs
head or tail
at the south entrance

of the bridge
beside the creek
where two yellow jackets

sometimes confused
with honey bees
beat their wings

lancing with small barbs
the dense coat
of its black and crowded body