Are they ours?
Hovering above the table -
You've said you wouldn't know
How to trust me
When they came -
But now
You see
Like messy little clouds
Are those angels actually ours?
(This might have been foreseen)
My friend
(Urgent
Naive to the point of fragile):
There are no angels
The surface is blank
Yet here again we are
Stopped on opposite sides
Lost in another of his loopy stories
Each a companion to yet each smaller
Than himself
Thinly crafted like the furniture
Stumped around at our feet
And the table
Creaking slowly upwards
Slinged in the centre of us
Polished and somehow
Doubly impressive today
An Edwardian showpiece
With quatrefoil stretchers
And barley twist legs
Juddering to its agreed height
Just above our noses
Where it rests now
But with no apparent hostage
Of angels, I urge
Yes?
Oh, but it's his turn
To close in on the verges
Set fact beside fact and find
Something
Neither of us wants to see
Or wants
To be charmed by the invisible
Is a step in the wrong direction
To own it is proof
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