I can’t account for the angels.
But I no longer drop stitches
at altitude, over rivers of sand,
where I float calm at 37,000 feet
(“37 angels,” the test pilots say),
and do women’s work old as women’s work:
knit mauve pastels from two sticks
and two stitches, while mountains
creep below like crocodiles.
Dotted with scrub, the Santa Catalinas
pinken to a desert, in whose cacti
I’ve seen elf owls roosting,
their downy feathers angelic
among the rude spines.
Then we become the hour hand
over clock-faced pastures,
and desert turns to a flight of mesas.
The trick is not to unravel
while knitting at altitude
the invisible knots
of the visible world,
just because virus and mountain range
look the same, jag for jag,
in long and short views,
especially from the perspective
of angels, or ever stop searching
for time and the marvel
among the green sundials
of Kansas grain.