A rather plain model, knowing how stability corrupts the mind, spent one rainy night with three sublunary angels.
For the first, the darkness was the landscape through which light journeys on its quest for eyes. The starlights, he told her, frustrated as they were by clouds, had traveled centuries to touch hills on treesides, vanished houses of which only cement stairs remain (leading now to vacant lots), the first age spot on her hand.
The second angel revealed to her the film of decay that covers the surface of things — the film that is the skin of an ancient, kind beast, whose tender care sustains the world; and its coat of seeming dull gray, he broke apart into its ten thousand colors.
The third, who was the oldest and who had come the farthest, send the others out to diagram the wet shadows surrounding every city streetlight, while he learned from the model the curves and spasms of her body. He knew how purity can fester in the soul.
A prose poem, and rather labored. It was very hard to write that night. I think I’d hit some kind of wall.