He
wrestled
the
escaping
angel,
grabbing
at
his
heel.
The
book
tumbled
from
the
angel’s
grip
and
down
the
stairs.
As
he
caught
it,
the
angel
went
out
the
window.
He
remembers
the
last
time,
the
angelic
finger
bent
back
in
levitating
dictation,
while
he,
an
old
man,
transcribed
by
ochre
candlelight.
He
seeks
those
quotations
now:
poetry,
prophecy,
praise.
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