The angel of acedia is drunk
from a chalice that never
runs dry–she lives
in the grandest chamber
of the mind.

she is lying naked on
a black leather couch, 
reading a book of Beckett’s
or Woolf’s and the only
thing she pays heed
to is her jade plant
each morning

she has thick black
hair that she never
bothers brushing and
her eyes are so dark they
could never shimmer
at children or kittens as
yours do

she is beautiful but
sexless–her breasts flat
and her curves slight
and she drags her feet
whenever she walks

she falls through each
day for she never bothered
using her wings–they get in her
way and they’re filthy from
coffee stains; she always
loathed white.

if you ring her door at
midnight you can
hear her put the kettle on
and start to play  
Elliott Smith’s Either/Or
album before she
reaches the door–

after all, she mumbles,
I’m dead already
so why should 
I sleep?