The Manchester Review
Gerard Smyth
Two poems
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Wings of Desire

In November when night appears
at four o’clock and a chilling mist caps the domes
of church and synagogue, they were selling as souvenirs
fragments from the wall of death – the wall that divided
west from east. Over the traces of Kristallnacht,
they have built the fashionable streets, laid down the tracks
that run each way. At the Brandenburg Gate,
in the Starbucks café, in a metropolis
where every photograph we took turned out grey,
we sat and watched the Monument to Victory,
her swarthy horses giddying. Then we went looking
for all the places the angel visited in Wings of Desire.