There are angels all around us:
driving mail trucks, fixing plumbing,
selling drugs.
They have wings we can't see.

Wings deliver them from
mornings vomiting in the sink —
and weeping
(loudly or quietly depending on taste)
and pills under the mattress too:
they are angels.

There is grace in everyday things.
Laughter is a dance, and
going to the pharmacy only once a month:
this is sculpture in marble.
Slow and steady, over years
(white chips flaking in the air —
in the light it's like opening a
fluoxetene capsule)
.

I read once that
Michaelangelo took four years
to chip David from a block of stone.
Imagine the beauty, darling, if he'd spent eleven.

(That's what I'm waiting for.
But medicines,
they make poor chisels.)

Lover:
There is a space between your shoulders
where your wings used to be