Hemingway, or something

Had a dream about you, angel boy. 

Saw you fold in your wings,

saw you crash to earth,

witnessed the heavy landing

onto a bottle of bourbon.

And then I watched you slide 

your hands across unworthy ground-

planting love and

reaping sorrow,

growing more bent every year-

“All cowardice comes from not loving

or not loving well,

which is the same thing”

but I am not here to save you. 

I cannot drag you up that pedestal 

I spent so much time climbing down from 

and frankly, angel, 

With that dark hair and those dark eyes

Sweet full lips and silver tongue 

and, goddamn, angel,

those wicked teeth,

I’m more inclined to keep you fallen.