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