Dwight Stevers: Poetry

	Poetry
	Dwight Stevers

Snapshot
- for Terry
I shed myself in the grey midnight. I dance in white fields, a discarded angel. I talk to no one. Only pictures flash and whisper their depth. Only snapshots in a mirror. Small pinpoints of light converge into one point and take on human form. Waiting angels watch the sun as midnight music calls me, the dancer. I touch the frozen wings in disbelief. The frozen wings of time that beat only in death's doorway. I stand in the shade of here and now, the snapshot, whispering, waiting, melting like the snow outside my window. I watch the other angels, dark angels, static, silent angels. They see me in the window. They watch me closely – I'm not always here.

Snapshot

- for Terry

I shed myself
in the grey midnight.
I dance in white fields,
a discarded angel.
I talk to no one.
Only pictures flash
and whisper their depth.
Only snapshots in a mirror.
Small pinpoints of light
converge into one point
and take on human form.
Waiting angels watch the sun
as midnight music calls me,
the dancer.
I touch the frozen wings
in disbelief.
The frozen wings of time
that beat only in death's doorway.
I stand in the shade
of here and now,
the snapshot,
whispering, waiting,
melting like the snow
outside my window.
I watch the other angels,
dark angels,
static, silent angels.
They see me in the window.
They watch me closely –
I'm not always here.

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