The angels with stone wings –
they too loved once,
and it seemed to them a wonder,
and now their names have washed away from their tombstones.
In condemnation of eternal rest,
they have a moment of respite:
when the setting sun warms the vestigial stone,
and the remaining letters of their names
are decked in gold by day’s last light.
No woman could ever be
as the marble nymphs,
enticing silhouettes of the shadowy valley.