Sunday, July 11, 2004
Desire
by Christopher Locke
— after Wim Wenders
Berlin is thick with ruin,
and the angel is expected
to be less than a shadow — to stare
down impotent at all their crying
out, their replays in a great
theater of loss. Shaking rain
from his wings, he settles
into a library, everyone sitting,
or standing between the orderly
shelves. He leans close, their thoughts
smashing like waves against desire —
the sorrow of it.
And that's when he notices
her, a woman, the light
of her face glowing above
an open book; the angel sees
what he can not have: the slow
rapture of one heart into another.
She sighs and shifts her head,
and he wants to touch the fortress
of her wanting, the mere breath
of it. He feels his wings
detach, and she turns slightly,
unsure, a weight, (something
like sweetness), at her shoulder.
. . .
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