We will go naked


small as dolls. We will be

hoisted, one angel each,

strong armed, heavy wings


smelling of lilacs. Falling

below us, flailing trees,

buildings like hymnals.


Lust, et cetera, will be

forgotten, envy of breasts,

pride in curled hair.


Demons will snatch

at our sloughed skins.

Our souls turned to spheres


will be batted up,

scarred balloons

bouncing toward birds


that prey on the dead,

beaks jutting from red faces,

monstrous onslaught,


our starlit souls blued by

the glow, lighter, lastly,

than the circumference of air.