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The real wing of a real angel . . . ? That
would be the travel of light through the universe.
Now imagine both wings . . . no, we can’t.
Instead, medieval artists set them
onto a figure’s shoulders, made a backpack, made them
glorified epaulettes, so that the Annunciation
can fit into Mary’s room. One task
of a window is to domesticate the sky.
I make this process sound unappealing, I know,
but that isn’t my intention: we’re
the atoms of stars, the atoms of what preceded the stars,