the closest thing to angels

November fog blushes between the trees,

does death conceal a green promise in its branches?

Trying to see comfort in the dilute sun slipping

its coins of light through impassive sky.

My hair falls out in three tangled knots.

The day will slump dark before we all get home.

I keep thinking about how they said berries

on the bushes so early meant a hard winter, or how

I wish I could have told you that urban foxes

are different, whipping down the street in daylight,

or bold on yellow nights. Perhaps they are nearest

to God, the closest thing to angels I’ve ever met.

The coffee leaves a sour aftertaste while I watch

the atmosphere blooming briefly blue, clouds like

spilled milk. Funny, I still want to cry on buses.

A cat’s tail curls against the café chairs. Against

a young businessman’s leg. His hand reaches down,

absentminded. When he gets up to leave he looks at me

and smiles. I feel I’ve lost someone.