Friday, April 29, 2016

Anatomy of an Archangel

He walks on the ground
You can’t see his wings
One second he’s crying
The next second he sings
Hawks another breath
Heaves another jest
He searches for perches
And then he swings
Hanging on sentences of hordes
He wields his pen just like a sword
He dangles and tugs and then cuts the cords
Wings made of tissue
Head made of stars
He smells like an ape
And sings like a sitar
Head in the clouds
Feet on the ground
Hears infinity
In each ounce of sound