And the fourth angel sounded the trumpet,
and the third part of the sun was smitten,
and the third part of the moon . . .
It was the week of my birthday, the year
that everything was still possible.
One angel, one eagle—two creatures
with wings—hovered in the painted green sky
under a sun and a moon sliced into
pieces, one third gone from each.
Every star was a different star:
some were sixes; some were sevens.
I liked the wrought iron railings beneath
the ivy on the tiny balcony,
and it was good to hear someone walking
overhead, to hear their voices rising
out of windows opened to the empty
spot in the sky, the one the trumpet made.