prose poetry

i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
have you heard
she must go back, she said
i know not where
a storm is riding on the tide
i had over-prepared the event
and how could you dream of meeting
with joy and wonder
city that is not a city
and with the humming bird
burly, dozing humble-bee
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
they threw a stone, you threw a stone
with lips blood red and heart of stone