The Blessing

I thought that I had wrestled an angel,

or perhaps, more honestly,

I hoped that I had.

For an epic battle signifies;

and to groan against the celestial

frames with a wide gilt border.

Might this nine-stone of flesh, 

be noticed even unto holy contact?

Might I be touched,

seen,

bruised,

excavated,

beheld in weakness,

met in stoked desire, 

vouchsafed victory,

then conquered?

Might the dizzy sweat of earth, 

flex against the bright sweet stuff of heaven, 

close and breathing deep,

granted through a torn hip socket

composition?

Vanity,

vanity,

all is vanity.

All but definition is vanity.

For there is a fine blind distance 

dividing love and loving love.

They are false twins.

Yet no distance at all remains

in the limp left by an angel.

- - - - - - - - -

Gustave Doré, Jacob Wrestling the Angel (1855)