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Recorded for Poem-a-Day, June 27, 2018.
About this Poem 

“The poem appears to have two memories and one hesitation. One memory is of the first time I saw a girl and fell in love with her. I am still in love with her. Another memory is having been sent, as a child, to meet the repo man at the door and give him the car keys. This happened more than once. The hesitation has to do with taking on more life near the end of one's life, knowing what one knows by now.”
—James Galvin

My Second Angel

Do you want to come in?
Take a deep breath.
The repo man is gone.
All I had to do was show him
My favorite gun
And tell him about
My conviction
That a shame-faced galaxy
Mutters a homily of return. 
The repo man will return
With back-up
So I promoted the orphan
To vagabond.
Why do you think they call it
The chain of command?
Writing out of fear—
That razzle-dazzle
Of shackles and manacles
Makes angels cry,
And, admit it,
That’s what you wanted.
My first angel came
In a haze of Alice blue
That emanated
From a dulcimer she cradled
But did not play.
She did a little angel jig
And turned away.
I guess all angels are sad-eyed,
Like you.
Do you want to come in?
Take a deep breath.
Everything is about to happen.
James Galvin

James Galvin

The author of several collections of poetry, James Galvin's book Resurrection Update: Collected Poems 1975-1997 was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Award and the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize

by this poet

poem
                                                       Past
fences the first sheepmen cast across the land, processions
of cringing pitch or cedar posts pulling into the vanishing
point like fretboards carrying barbed melodies, windharp
narratives, songs of place, I'm thinking of the long cowboy
ballads
poem
We don't belong to each other.
		          We belong together.
	                                                                  Some poems 
belong together to prove the intentionality of subatomic particles.
                                     
Some poems eat with scissors
poem
Let us begin with a simple line,
Drawn as a child would draw it, 
To indicate the horizon,

More real than the real horizon,
Which is less than line,
Which is visible abstraction, a ratio.

The line ravishes the page with implications
Of white earth, white sky!

The horizon moves as we move, 
Making us feel