To the Angelbeast

For Arthur Russell

All that glitters isn't music.

Once, hidden in tall grass,

I tossed fistfuls of dirt into the air:

doe after doe of leaping.

You said it was nothing

but a trick of the light. Gold

curves. Gold scarves.

Am I not your animal?

You'd wait in the orchard for hours

to watch a deer

break from the shadows.

You said it was like lifting a cello

out of its black case.