On Being an Angel

After a just
breath summer
(peach mumble blackberry slump),
strange to be so
restlessly content
(musical-spined).

I finally
lined my mailbox
(dun brown rabbit fur);
finally arranged
all the teacups of
things that
have been said
(sideways slide of eyes).

I told a fairy tale rather awkwardly and I feel very small.
(I am sad and proud and sad to be proud but sad).
Oh my bed lies flaccid waiting for me; I cannot reject it and will go now to be bones in it.