The Grace of Falling Into Unseen Things

This is the place that we made love.

The churchyard's gloomy:
archaic mist and holy statues
with a grace untouched by feeble eyes;
iron-clad gates surround us,
wrought with tendril-vines and entropic blossoms.
I remember bringing you here:
the candles were dark but strong,
burning through the chapel doors
and stringent poses on the windows.
I saw you in the churchyard
with your face hidden behind hair--
even as the wind blew.
The angel that I took you to
now fallen to the ground,
only its head and an eye and
one ratty wing remaining.
This was the culling--
The cutting me out--the venom in your blood.
You're so open now, so much better--
while you swirl and I drain--
you're so happy now.
There is a bird that lands on the angel's finger,
alerted by my presence here.
So like this scavenger thing,
there is no white
in the darkest of my feathers.