The way milk just leapsaway from the carton when you applythe right angle.This was my category. She doesn’teven dreamabout crying anymoreand so we speak the passingof time and soand so, on.In this land of danger, I am walkingmy thief home.His pockets full with his handsand air, his headsinks lowon the horizon his shoulders make.Our carelesshazard—guessing the steps down,one miscue could lead to a misaligned spine.Kept between us, I enter my nameinto the rafflefor a new one and a car to drive it around in.She is calmand she doesn’t even show it. So we wear time,speak of passing it; and on and on, so.The angels loomsilent and lowly. They inhabita strange seatin this world, almost able to toucheverything, to gain proof of the living. Lo, I amknifing my gums, to sparkthe silver there. I am tapping maplesand draining my sunrises. The sequins on her dress are notstars and my pursefull of clamshells clacks away. The pitiful birdsdrifting round indoors, startleat mirrors and thud against the window.Their transparent hope what makes themless than holy, like so manylanterns that scrape the riverbanks.So muchfor what anyone elsehas to say.___Tony Mancus lives in Rosslyn, VA with his future wife and their two cats. He is co-founder of Flying Guillotine Press and he keeps a sloppy blog at inlandskirting.blogspot.com. Some of his poems are published or forthcoming at Phoebe, Verse, SpringGun, Vinyl, Barnstorm and elsewhere. He is happy to be returning to less formal work attire in the new year.