The Visit

Angel's Flight, Vol. 7.2 (1982)

Margaret Lavin

A lilt of touch
Hushed in afternoons of cream Belleek
And lavender leaves, polished
Windows, orphaned voices in the alley.
Conversation falls from your lips
Like orange peelings.
This cracked glass, I said,
Is not enchanting.
You're beguiled by rumors of grace
In every corner, the flush of wings
On a shabby sill, promises kept
In snug teapots, patches of shadow
Mending the chairs
And I don't know what to do
With you but wait
Between the light's last breath
And the unbearable empty cup.

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