The Angels Are Nowhere

I have not left this house for two days.
Looking outside,
I do not recognize the street.

This morning the angels left;
bowling out the door
in regimental black
they left behind
a phosphorescent fog.

The nights
I spent on the floor
and they on the bed and couch -
they slept in their clothes.
The angels and I snored
our smoke-dried throats.

For breakfast they had beer
and I had coffee and pastry.

                blue wings sift
                dozens of canned moths
                for the pastry

                I attempt to spy on the baker
                to see how he works

        if I lie to my father once more
        he will behead me

        but I did swim the Hellespont
        and I do want him to know -

        he will not believe me.
        I ate a bee-hive and all the bees
        and after I told him he
        in disbelief
        cut off my arm.

        I still swim;
        I use a modified side-stroke.

I cannot be inside this house
and write brittle elements
of the physical data -
I am walled.