Outside your house, blocking traffic, angels
Have set up a market. Very thin angels
Have spread blankets on the ground
Holding carefully-sorted piles of leaves, bottles
Of almost-new time, pictures of unknown celebrities
With their arms around God's neck, chained books
That mew or murmur or growl. Stouter,
More prosperous angels operate booths selling
Sno-cones and sausages and syllables
Once part of the infinite name of God.
To make up, perhaps, for the inconvenience
Your dog, dead these many years, brings you
A dealer's license, dropping it at your feet.
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