In a painting by Caravaggio
an angel floats, giving instruction,
at the shoulder of Saint Matthew.
The man is ancient, the angel a boy
if we judge by appearances;
but the Saint is the child, his knee
bent to the bench, his terror
painted as wonder. Closing the book,
I step out into the dark
where the wind troubles the grass
and the moving air seems
more visited than visiting.
Eventually it dies out, beaten
by a silence that seems obsessed
with itself, like a girl with a comb
leaning in a mirror. Somewhere
a screen-door bangs shut,
a sound that gives what's real
its necessary comfort.
If I turn suddenly, the angel
won't be there.
an angel floats, giving instruction,
at the shoulder of Saint Matthew.
The man is ancient, the angel a boy
if we judge by appearances;
but the Saint is the child, his knee
bent to the bench, his terror
painted as wonder. Closing the book,
I step out into the dark
where the wind troubles the grass
and the moving air seems
more visited than visiting.
Eventually it dies out, beaten
by a silence that seems obsessed
with itself, like a girl with a comb
leaning in a mirror. Somewhere
a screen-door bangs shut,
a sound that gives what's real
its necessary comfort.
If I turn suddenly, the angel
won't be there.
