friend poetry

it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
in and of itself
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
i make my shroud, but no one knows
tripping up, falling down
there is no flock, however watched and tended
with the meek, brown eyes
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
listen
from floor to ceiling
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
i loathed you
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night