the watchers.

angels are walking
the rain-slick streets,
wings airbrushed,
cinematic in their
art-house gravitas,
they are falling,
for the daughters of men,
the angels of air
for the angels of flesh.
they have left
their seats in the gods,
the gilded balcony of heaven
and are falling.
they follow us now
as we have our little moment
of love,
and riot and fury
in the sun,
under their quiet
unblinking gaze.
they watch and dream
of the beauty
the soft fragrance
of the female form,
the female face.
but look out,
all hell is breaking loose.

the fragrant trees.

behold this tree!
this beautiful tree!
this fragrant tree.
why should we not sit beneath it
and sing our praises to the lord?
let us sing now
and pray
for all his promises
are yes and amen.
let us put on now
the garment of praise
for all our heaviness,
have beauty for ashes,
and the oil of joy for mourning,
beneath this tree,
this beautiful tree,
steeped in the fragrance
of his holiness.

and amen.

the storehouses.

it is better
to hold inside
the memory,
the promise,
the fragrance,
of the untasted wine
of the holy spirit,
the sacred heart,
than to drink
the wine of kings
and be disappointed.

the law of the stars.

the revolutions of the stars
are blown apart,
the music of the spheres
singing only songs of static
and the red shift slipping
into the endless emptiness
of eternity.
only the noise
of the recession
of everything sings,
the song of everything
running away
down the cool of the evening,
after the long summers day.

lord how sweet the sound.

and the spirit?
what of the law of the stars?
father of lights
why do you hide
so completely
from your calling children?
and erase every sign
that you were ever even here?
were you ever even here?
or did you just walk away?
one summers day
when your angels fell in love
and lust over eden.

it is better
to hold inside
the memory,
the promise,
the fragrance
of the untasted wine
of the sacred heart,
then to drink
and not be disappointed.


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