<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=366742" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Head, Perhaps Of An Angel</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">limestone, with traces of polychromy, c. 1250</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Point Dume was the point,<br>he said, but we never came close,<br>no matter how far we walked the shale<br> broken from California.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Someone's garden<br>had slipped, hanging itself by a vine<br>from the cliffs of some new Babylon<br> past Malibu.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Drowning the words,<br>the wind didn't fling back in our faces,<br>the Pacific washed up a shell:<br> around an alabastron</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> of salt water for the dead,<br>seaweed rustled its papers, drying them out,<br>until it died. Waves kept crashing<br> into the heart</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> of each shell<br>I held to my ear like a phone,<br>but they were just the waves of my blood.<br> And through it all</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I heard him say,<br>how could it be nine months ago<br>his grandson had taken his own life,<br> somewhere back east?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> He was fifteen.<br>O Pacific, what good is our grief?<br>Something screamed at the sandy child<br> who poured seawater</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> into a hole.<br>Child, you'll never empty the ocean,<br>Augustine said. How can I believe?<br> The wet fist of a wave</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> dissolved in sand.<br>Like a saint, a seagull flapped down the beach<br>in search of something raw—an angel<br> with an empty pail?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> No, a teenage boy,<br>hands big as a man's, held a sea slug<br>quaking like an aspic. Under a rock, another<br> drew into its body</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> a creature<br>larger than itself. Live, said Death,<br>to child and childless alike, indifferently.<br> I am coming.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Debora+Greger">Debora Greger</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=366742" data-title="Head, Perhaps Of An Angel de Debora Greger" data-description="limestone, with traces of polychromy, c. 1250 Point Dume was the point, he said, but we never came close, no matter how far we walked the shale broken from California. Someone's garden had slipped, hanging itself by a vine from the cliffs of ..."></div> </div> </div>

solid border dashed border dotted border double border groove border ridge border inset border outset border no border blue green red purple cyan gold silver black