One Angel: Palazzo Arian

At San Raffaele Arcangelo One angel got it all wrong. She plopped into this sad century feet first in her dark clothes. There wasn't much water that winter—just a few puddles really— to break her fall. Mud-splattered, she rose and shook like a canine. It didn't take long to see her soaked wings as a backdrop to all the nonmagic to which we were accustomed, or to see what passed for history as a forgetting of sorts. (Was that one or two wars?) Strange how, as she limped down a dim vicolo , some willful disc hovered above her more florid than a sky—how the putrid puddles with their last reflections could neither correct nor register that light.