Hand is a hindrance, Gabriel, fingers in the way . . . souls slip
between incomplete triangles, tangles of irregularity.
The sparrow sings her joyous song, witness to the
invisible collision,
immortal connection.
Reflection indicates a weaving, but
projection impels the sometimes ensnarement that ensues
when angel makes mistake—no going back on fate.
Dates and deaths and births and breaths,
the fall improved but not avoided.
How much happier would we be—brightest one—if your strength were failing?
Your aim ailing?
What good does the birdhouse when the birds are indecisive?