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Do you mean you weren’t picking on me?
“No, we just want information from you. We want to see
your poetry.
We can’t help it if everyone born after 1972 is paranoid. As angels,
we can only do so much
engaging with contemporary mortals beneath the sun.
When we hold out our hands, they tend to run.
When we pour music slowly, they get impatient. When we show
them patience, they think we are just having fun.”
I think I saw one of you yesterday. There was a blur by a tree
in the park.
Was that one of you? I thought it was a squirrel, or a lark!
“We approach you only in the lofty caverns of your mind;
we are stately. But we are really not unkind.”
This was a dialogue which I made up, randomly,
and yet, I felt, not randomly.
And then I heard a voice I couldn’t quite discern.
It was a lovely voice. Just as my verse began
it’s final turn.
