Impossibyl Angæl

In the Sanctuary words are wet

With the dew of demise—damp desire

And, our tongues are by leopards beset

On all sides and the air tastes so dire.

An Impossibyl Angæl inter-

Jects with stone prose in the throes and knows

That the leopard’s spots are each splintered

Like wounds from private battles which show.

So, to know fear and its grisly face

Is to know a beast which will vanish

Only once you can dig the wet Grace

Of an Angæl who can then banish.