An Angel Picking Trash

He was picking through the trash bin

A man of tatters and stains

All foolishness and nerves

I spoke and offered him warm bread

He was still half down into the bin

Then straightening up and turning towards me.

There aren’t adequate words to speak of how his eyes were

Not unlike two candle flames

Shining out

And he smiled and took the bread

I hurried inside; it was raining

It was always raining in southern Chile

But I glanced back through the window

Where I’d seen him while taking the bread out of the hot oven

And he was gone. Nowhere on the long hill which was all stretched out before me.


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