After Walter Benjamin

The angry wind has shorn the feathers
off his wings.

He levitates on a fixed spot
by the highway. Is the wind

caused by the flood
of the speeding vehicles

or indeed hurled
by the rabid gods of heaven?

The angel can't tell. He watches
the atoms of his wings' debris

twirl in the tempest. Why
with such affection? A longing

for what? For the ruins
no doubt; for what's been crushed

by the onslaught of the divine
tragedy. Can he save any of it

from irretrievable erasure?
Will his suitcase have room

enough for the volume
of such immeasurable loss?

He can't tell
as yet. He floats, resists

being swallowed by the storm
and doesn't hitch a lift.