We have lost the look of angel’s eyes
and wear the hunched mask that smiles
not our smiles and not God’s.
A cross-man hangs from the rear view,
where a grim grin neglects to see Gone Mountain,
or the silence of geese above the Silver Bow,
or the last old lunger dragging his air along Harrison.
We made our Lady of the Acid Lake,
and raised her up to assuage the hurt hunch
that our undoing cannot be undone.
Her white eyes see nothing but tipple spoil
our bequeast to speck angel’s eyes.