The Lost Language #11
--Bruce Bond 

If you are searching for a friend online,
an insomniac to break the bread
of misery and silence, look no farther.
Trust me, says anonymous, the voice
in rivers after dark is no illusion.
It is an angel. And who can resist.
If I am broken just enough, I fly.
I suspend my physical heart, alive,
among the saints and champion banners.
I never met an angel, but I saw one
once in a painting, in one hand poppies,
the other a harp, and though it made no music,
it seemed so finely strung in the fire
of a child's hair, it nearly played itself.