His mourning is disordered, his grief resembles suspense. Sickness coming, he is sure, not from the unspeakable, but from wrong words, exalted. He wishes he could figure out how memory acts. Or how an act remembers. Struck by the intelligence of his hands, he would like to disguise us as animals.
Some angels sit.
Some angels stand. And some are seated, but with their legs in a position suggesting dance. And halts, appalled at how his thoughts wander. Mortal thoughts they are. For his part, he watches by preference how sun speckles the sidewalk.