The angels — Rilke’s gang
of upstarts — called me. I refused
to go; after a while they went
and I was alone.

Corruption seizes the night
in the hours before sun comes up.
I wait for the tender shade of the morning,
the lighting of the blinds. I’m alone.

Cat, or a being like one, in the spare room
prowling, skulking about. In dawn’s breaking
the cat will turn into an angel like Rilke’s,
or maybe more like one of Blake’s. Either way

I will be alone. It doesn’t matter
which way they turn — into terror or war,
into beauty or inscrutable meaning. I will not
turn; I will face the day squarely. Again — I will not turn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T