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Angel at the Gates

Somewhere in a parallel universe


We are not privy to
(Although we can see them
stacked up around us)
lives one stirred to a magnetic life
at the opposite pole
of being the worlds best bank teller :
Horowitzian Control-Alts lefthanded
In one smooth gesture,
Prestissimo cantabile of course,
Native languages Russian,
Georgian of course,
Azebaijani, and a little Martian.
My compliment, that part
Of the Georgian psyche indeed
Resided on another planet taken kindly,
And almost seriously, it was through
Blue pleasure zones that we sped
Till we reached Nineveh (in transliteration
Western Union) yellow and white

Like a less flirtatious, less treacherous,


Beeline:
This is where lost funds go.
To have needed to have had
Your funds lost, then found again
Is Biblical enough : and this Angel
retrieved them from a blue not black
Hole, far beyond the city gates,
Where they were in financial meltdown.
Two hundred dollars less four cents
(452 Laris, some small change, and
a sweetly silver useless petite one lari coin
emerged)
She was Star Treck busomed, my lady,
such hidden efficiency masking a deeper
fertilityAnubis, maybeor the waters of
Siloe:
the first Mtkvari, I imagine, or the Nile.
And so, noiselessly, the funds came.
There was no sigh, and scarce a smile ,
But a printout
(Torn with a ruler neatly down
the middle, which is how they
manage things here)
densely black with
Georgian small print,
In a font of maybe four.
I was reminded
Of the Gospel of John :
In the beginning was the Word

Was all that came to mind.


Asli copy it was rubriced,
Or rather overprinted
in black,
but the liturgical intent was clear.
There is combustion
Within the small stars
Of our daily unions
And our thoughts unheeded
Unvisitingly eternity making firm!
Note the anguished ecstacy
Of the key signature
Of this moment, the laris ex machina
For which praeternatural bank tellers
yearn!