Familiar Angel

Cold fever falls
the stars over
the child's city-

the church
where I was born
rises up

to kiss
or curse
or slay me...

the blazing stare
of stone-imprisoned
saints,

the opalescent shine
of gold-winged
prayers,

the long hall
that leads
to God's chair,

somehow,
summons back
my shame;

ever cradled
in the pressing
arms

of that dark,
familiar
angel.