print previewback ANNIE WOODFORD
And So the Beauty of Lilies Falls on Angels and Men
A man I love because I knew his boyhood
bending trees and sinker eyes is bipolar.
He confers with the sage in the back
of his brain and gets lots of work done.
He bloodies his knuckles on rocks, doorways,
sofa frames, the fitting of the part into
the place to fix the thing that has been broken.
A machine as moth wing. A mechanism
one must reach into and take what scrapes required.
Walking must be done. Run to bone. Run to fat.
There are times when the trees are archangels
whispering their names, times when the jackrabbit
is but a slipknot of meat and bloody skin.
There are times when the boulders take back
their natural shape and walk the wild black spaces
as big men, brains stone-hard with sadness. 
And So the Beauty of Lilies Falls on Angels and
Men
Great Road