where the writers are
For Angela

  There exists a word
that like a negative sun
absorbs all your thoughts.
 
It may be pressed on,
when you, or me, are wrapped on
insignificance.
 
Or it may be brushed
with one bold and sudden stroke
on a plain canvas.
 
Cancer. Word as cane.
The dim fog of destruction,
medieval pain.
 
Horror-stricken friends.
Children weeping in bathrooms,
fathers at their ends.
 
The descent is led
by priests in white or turquoise,
lapdogs for the dead.
 
Angels masquerade
as pink or yawning cherubs
while their outlines fade
 
to reveal, at once,
the grotesque machinery
of their aquatic self.
 
Their namesake awake,
her beautiful eyes now host
to a Ionesco play.