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This poem is taken from PN Review 135, Volume 27 Number 1, September - October 2000.

Conspiracy Theory Karen Press

The Dark Angel

The dark angel comes home with news.
Out there it's rural, it's absolute absence.
It's no milk, for example. It's urban, the dirt
of rats and scavengers. It's people without
what we have. The dark angel gets drunk
in despair. It's worse than anything we planned for.
Even if I ripped my wings off and burned them
for rain clouds it means nothing. I have to
do this thing of not living unless those people live,
and they can't do it and nor can I.
But my wings won't come off and the wind won't
stop lifting me and carrying me there
and my flying just blots out the sun.

Light from a dark source.
Lace on a blood kiss.
The breath, the word

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