A white, pure-cotton angel
till this day hovering in my closet 
on a metallic hanger. It's thanks to him
that nothing untoward in all these years 
has ever happened to me, or to these very quarters.
A modest radius, one might say, though clearly 
delineated. Having been made unlike 
ourselves in the image and in the likeness
but incorporeal, angels possess just color 
and velocity. The latter explains their being 
everywhere. That's why you are still 
with me. Wings and shoulder straps can indeed 
manage without a proper torso,
shapely limbs, or love per se, and cherish 
anonymity, letting the body burgeon 
with happiness whose diameter lies somewhere in evergreen 
California.