Adam Hughes

Grace

Angel with the sword, hold off
another moment. I just made
love to my wife and we’d like to lie here,
a grapevine and an ash,
a twist of fiber, sinew,
and curvature. Please hold off longer,
for earlier we stood beneath
the cloud-blurred stars—pockets
of spark amidst the smoke-sky—and watched
the horses doing nothing in the fields,
heads low, facing north, doing nothing more
beautifully than anything has ever
done nothing before. Hold off with
your cutting down and your famining,
tomorrow night is supposed to be clear
and all I want from life is to sleep
in a world where love is made
and horses stand, sleeping beneath
the bleached arms of a sycamore.