hearing the host of angels in a traffic jam

i feel mercy in being halted.

heaven fits inside a plume of exhaust

a plume of exhaust fills my spirit

i exhale

and am exhaled.

my fear of rot subsides.

am i still?

we passed the school where children strove

at recess in the ring

am i still? am i, still? or do i ride

at eight thousand five hundred miles a minute

around the archer in the void,

praying to be marked?

oh loose the bowstring,

and find your target in me.