Tuesday, August 4, 2015


Angels when they descend to Earth
Make bodies for themselves. Usually,
Condensed air is their medium
But almost anything will do. Sand
Has been used, as well as wheat, pipestems,
Shadows and hand-polished anthracite coal.
There is an angel I have heard of
Who makes himself from abstractions
Running God's errands made of sharpness
Or vain regret. He only once clad himself
In Time which left him chronophobic
For some centuries. Another angel,
Called Hatif, has never been embodied
But comes merely as a voice. Accordingly,
If you were awake at three this morning
And, looking casually from your window,
You saw an angel in the alleyway
Behind your building, his half-furled wings
Almost brushing the walls on both sides
As he accepted a drink from the bottle
Extended towards him by a dirty hand
That was certainly not Hatif. The voice
From nowhere which shouted in your ear
"This is not a show -- go back to bed"?
That was Hatif.

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