Issue Five

Autumn 2012


An Angel’s Fury

A variation on Baudelaire’s 'Le Rebelle'

From what high place he leapt, or fell, or flew
I don’t know, and I didn’t want to hear
why he stood now before me. Yet I knew
exactly who he was. He struck my ear —

correct no one would stop him in this city
where, each day, I speed-walk past the poor
wrecked souls who ask for handouts, work, or pity,
so many I don’t see them anymore —

and pulled me back, the traffic teeming by,
What’s wrong with you? You’re lost. I won’t ask why
you rush past in disgust: but don’t you feel

that dead place at the center of your chest
where mercy used to swell? He squeezed my wrist —
But I won’t bend to anybody’s will.


Ned Balbo



silver fractal