Angel of Death by Michael Thomas
I drove past a woman in a dust mask Meandering in the field beside her house. The way her gardener’s hat Gathered shadows from the setting sun, She could’ve been the Angel of Death Awaiting some sanguine metaphor to expel her. It was mid-July and steamy with old rain, The Angel of Death tending her crape myrtles And searching the brambles beneath a fencepost For wild blackberries or oregano.
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