The sun long since slipped out of your day.
You lie in clean sheets of a widowed sister,
your nieces gathered around whispering
in Italian or Greek. At last the bellows

of your lungs are quiet; forged metal cools.
The pen was heavier than the hammer, but
now everything fits, even the words
on scattered air. From the dead fire, smoke

rises, disappears. The angel has walked
a long way to meet you, from that country
off the map where they speak such foreign
languages: Love, Peace. The angel comes

delivering your accounting. Without doubt
you’ll have the sum. Whatever questions
he poses, whatever words he asks,
you’re sure to understand the tongue.