by Rose Bostrup

There is a place for the scared
angels who picked up no arms.
He conceived them damned in
eternal, diseased cycle, forever fiending
for a flag of freedom.
And of course it is eternal and these
seraphs know each other very well. Sometimes I
think of how sad it is
that I could be content to run
with you, hand in hand. The only problem is that
I should kill every cop who could ever lay their
hands on you.