Mark J. Mitchell

A Token Demon (Dinanukht)

By the water where Babylon
once rose, rests a demon.

There, between time and that
which is whatever is not, he sits.

Half of him is folded flesh--
The rest, the pages of a book.

He’s settled on the vanished river
constantly reading himself

until whatever this might be
is swallowed by whatever sea might want it.

---

Assorted Angels

The angel with a revolver
In his teeth sits
Cross-legged on the ghost
Of smoke he just exhaled, watching

An angel tap at her
Tilting halo, trying to knock
It back into place without
Looking at a mirror which shows

A birthday caught under
The wing of a napping angel
Brushed by her rising feathers
With each breath while she dreams

Of dark robes and darker
Clouds and the kind angel
Of darkness who sings out
Iron notes making a song about

An angel with a revolver.

---

Felony

A clock got stolen just after midnight
or before noon. Guesses vary. The unlit
candle grew smaller. Eyes closed. Opened. Closed
again. Dust claimed victory one last time.
The empty shelf forgot to decompose.

Across the room, two mirrors leaned inwards,
on each other, passing back imagined doors.
There was a ticking sound somewhere
again. Dust settled, smug, swallowing time.
The room formed a circle around that chair

tilting left and down. Traffic rattled past.
Invisible drivers pressing the gas,
racing back to rooms as fierce as this one.
Again, dust laughs because it’s beaten time.
The clock got fenced. Money’s split. Crime’s done.

---

Waltz Fugue

     I keep returning
     to a place that doesn’t exist
     where you wait just off the page.
     The alphabet revolts
     and my fingers begin a waltz.

     I keep returning.
     A place that doesn’t exist
     lurks just off the page.
     You waltz with
     the revolting alphabet
     while my fingers return.

     You come back to me.
     The alphabet doesn’t exist.
     My fingers take hold.
     We waltz off the page.