Brad Leithauser
Angel
There between the riverbank
and half-submerged tree trunk
it's a kind of alleyway
inviting loiterers–
in this case, water striders.
Their legs, twice body-length, dent
the surface, but why they don't
sink is a transparent riddle:
the springs of their trampoline
are nowhere to be seen.
Inches and yet far below, thin
as compass needles, almost, min-
nows flicker through the sun's
tattered netting, circling past
each other as if lost.
Enter an angel, in
the form of a dragon-
fly, an apparition whose
coloring, were it not real,
would scarcely be possible:
see him, like a sparkler,
tossing lights upon the water,
surplus greens, reds, milky
blues, and violets blended
with ebony. Suspended
like a conductor's baton
he hovers, then goes the one
way no minnow points: straight
up, into that vast solution
of which he's a concentrate.
Brad Leithauser, The Oldest Word for Dawn: New and Selected Poems, Alfred A. Knopf, 2013.