God Love the Art Deco Angel

Poor shapeless thing, too shapeless to call a day,
came bumping softly bumping down the stairs.

*

Sequestered in lacquered gold, breasts a-tilt,
there were two of her waiting at the bottom.
One might have been a mirror, the other its reflection,
eclipsing one another back into one.
The day, if we could call it that, stretched out behind her,
grew long until it was bewilderingly long
and tilted softly from wing-tip to wing-tip
and seemed to have lasted, oh, a thousand years.

*

How she leant, leant into the wind.
If the day was brushed, combed out over Enniskillen
it was knotted over Greenland, became unravellable
over the deepest trenches of the Atlantic,
blown wild over Labrador, spindled and tangled
...