here, in France
when dinner talk abruptly stops, and silence falls over its guests
like the freak rain that buried our village lawns
in Saharan sand one night, someone will say; un ange passe
and everyone will nod, feeling the narrative sag,
allowing the gap that time makes for an angel to pass;
for him to work his slow arc over our heads. some
will even look up, as if to stare the roof off,
because such messengers still exist and move
between us here. whilst only the giant fresco of night
will feel the beat of his exhausted wings, find greying feathers
snagged on its stars later, the guests’ primitive self
will recall its decaying gods. this sudden pause is like the air-lock
before explosion; when a room knowing itself
to be on the brink holds its breath