Here is the closed blue eyelid of time
you touch to make sure, to see.
Through a flat window of stone
they pass a rose of lapis lazuli,
pale stem and leaf of jade,
the long wide opal sky lit
low to the left, which must be West.
Flat stone. The rose can barely fit.
Day is done, they want you to dance,
maybe more if you read the message there,
or see how they move through thick evening
and smile. The rose hangs heavy in the air,
velvet dampening your skin,
and whatever the angels intend
you reach out your hand again
and say yes, drag me in.
© 2021 Evan Fowler