The pity of things that aren't angels

Sometimes I feel 
I should wander the world
an angel unseen 
except in those moments 
I stand behind to the side
of the one who stands 
in front of you, and - myself 
unseen, I catch your eye 
in wordless rapport. And you 
get 
the idea 
some benevolent spiritual ass 
looks across, as an equal, 
you-sized: "I wish you'd express
yourself with equal fulsomeness 
and sincerity,"

Pause for thought for that. But
you can't, you're midstream
in engaged encounter, and
without anything dysordinary 
having occurred, you sweep 
that bodiless flicker aside 
and continue on
however you do
your loss. 

Yet - in those moments 
I feel that wish, not "realize it" 
so much as realize that it 
exists, probably always 
there - I flick 

it aside.
Because one 
cannot care for
what one can't control,
any more 

than one dares. 

In my case, such daring 
ashames itself. It has to.
I have no shame 

in my faultfully faithful, not so
much guilt-ridden as guilt-driving, 
blameless and guilt-aiming, guilt-freighted
train while I stand engineer proud atop 
the caboose swinging guilt-forged sword
at all that moves, with so much 

to lose. My loss.
O my soul. 

So much in this world lies 
about being out of control.