My father burned the midnight oil,
gluing together wax and feathers.
When he was through,
 I looked like Gabriel—
a little tattered,
a little weathered.
It wasn’t the sun that melted my wings,
so close I could hear the angels sing.
The injustice of disbelief
dropped me from the heavens’ canopy.
Thrown to the sky
like a stone from a sling,
dropped like lead to the arms of the sea.
I rest my head on the ocean floor.
You walk above me.
It wasn’t the sun that melted my wings,
so close I could hear the angels sing.
The misfortune of disbelief
dropped me from the heavens’ canopy.