Angelus Novus
.
After Walter Benjamin
.
The angry wind has shorn the feathers
off his wings.
He levitates on a fixed spot
by the highway. Is the wind
caused by the flood
of the speeding vehicles
or indeed hurled
by the rabid gods of heaven?
The angel can’t tell. He watches
the atoms of his wings’ debris
twirl in the tempest. Why
with such affection? A longing
for what? For the ruins
no doubt; for what’s been crushed
by the onslaught of the divine
tragedy. Can he save any of it
from irretrievable erasure?
Will his suitcase have room
enough for the volume
of such immeasurable loss?
He can’t tell
as yet. He floats, resists
being swallowed by the storm
and doesn’t hitch a lift.
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