Letter to a Fallen Angel
July–August 2013
It’s you I think of, Cassiel,
as I look down from the 25th floor
in my white hotel bathrobe,
feet resting on the window,
listening to Casals, who has to be
your brother-angel — fallen
to earth with his cello.
Below, my city’s a reef:
calcified light towers,
red train tracks that undulate,
white amoebas that pulse along the expressway
to the dark water’s…