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,
beheld in weakness,
met in stoked desire,
Might the dizzy sweat of earth,
flex against the bright sweet stuff of heaven,
close and breathing deep,
granted through a torn hip socket
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.
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Gustave Doré, Jacob Wrestling the Angel (1855)