You always thought angels livedin the dark. You didn’t sleep.Appeared at the foot of Mom’s bedcovered in Nana’s perfume. You sawand kept seeing. You let themmake a crescent of your spine.The same thing over and over.You don’t trust air. You call the ghoststhe angels your kin.There is one who looks like your brother.One in Nike shorts tastes sauce froma wooden spoon and pours ruminto his brown on the stoop.There’s one who brings the weed.There’s one you call your brother.They are already dead. They livein the future. You see them becauseyou can’t sleep. You feel cold.Angels with ringtones and child support.Angels with PhDs. One in your bed.One calculates the tip at brunch.One colors inside the chalk line.One walks with you into the discoevening, radiating purposefully.August rain is cold. The desertis cold. Verdicts. Seasons.Verdicts. Night. Blood. Saliva.A cousin of a friend of a friend who broughta six-pack, yes, perfect, let everyone in.Your angels fly outfits, second chances.Handguns, candy, cigars, mothers, mothersfor your angels and children for the mothers.They spook. They blood and sage.And when the policemen come to breakeverything         an angelin a polo shirt answers the door, saysofficers I’m sorryI’m not