Angels fall from heaven,
the beating of their wings is not
unlike the ruffled pages of the Victoria’s
Torn and folded,
tucked between inkjet printings
of Lara Croft–
her towel just about to slip.
My friend had a thing for
So she was there too.
Not looking for a distant glow
but for some thing unknown
to spindly prepubescent arms.
She wanted what they all wanted,
and a place to call their home.
I loved the dirt behind the baseball diamond,
where the dugout hung
just above the river.
are not waterproof.