To the Angelbeast

For Arthur Russell All that glitters isn’t music. Once, hidden in tall grass, I tossed fistfuls of dirt into the air: doe after doe of leaping. You said it was nothing but a trick of the light. Gold curves. Gold scarves. Am I not your animal? You’d wait in the orchard for hours to watch a deer break from the shadows. You said it was like lifting a cello out of its black case.