Wednesday, March 27, 2019


Angels appeared in my poems
long before they became
as common as lapel pins.  Once
angels were not so obvious;
they appeared to only the chosen:
Joseph Smith on the mountain,
Saul on the road, Mary at home. 
And there was the old man
in New Jersey who saw one
in the porch window across the street.
Angels, what is it with them? 
Once it was only a feather
dropped through Rilke’s Elegies.  Now
they have fan clubs, intermediaries,
blogs, profiteers.  They’ve had their divinity
brushed from their wings.

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