There is an angel
in Long Island
who prays for
me like my
mama always has.
The wife of a
poet friend
with devils
I guess just
like mine.
Demons of
her own once,
I'm told,
then loosed.
Her spirit burned
bright driving
shadows and
darkness.
Now they go
to church together
and this lady
from up North
in Long Island she
prays for me
on Sundays
like my woman
used to do
before I fell
from grace.