The angel asked, as his shoulders were pressed into the stone
Why me? And taken away from the inhabited body,
Like the lyric voice rustling from memory forests,
Childhood rushes toward death, a wind in those woods,
Crashing through trees, dying out,
Settling like a white mist over everything.

Tom Clark, “Statue” from Light and Shade: New and Selected Poems.
Copyright � 2006 by Tom Clark. Used with the permission of Coffee House
Source: Sleepwalker (1992)
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