New York City skyline at night


Spring 2009



Ann Lauinger

The Green Angel

In the orchard of death
the green angel
in whom I do not believe
fans green wings,

and the dead are loosed,
a cirrus snowfall
shaken down.
If I have an insect's heart,

let me have the rest.
Formic scent
of the slow haul

for home. Buzzed
insistence glinting
above a smashed pear.



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