OBSOLETE ANGEL

This one can’t fly: he’s got
stubby wings, he’s old
as space or time; he’s gone
to fat. And now he even
disregards the omens that he never
should have learned to read
at all: blistered skies,
the sticky secrets
in the bowels of toads.
He’s used up his store
of magic, he’s half-blind,
but he’s crusty
as good bread and willing:
in the moonlight,
he struggles up the shadows
towards god, hears
the wheezing orchestration
of embodied lives
— he always sings low
his one hoarse note,
always tumbles down to where
we save him again
and again he falls
like a hailstone
from some heaven
and we will save him.

Renee Ashley

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One Response

  1. Nicely imagined and so humane.

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