The angels spend most of their time
on earth with their coworkers the scarecrows.
They have a lot to talk about, and of course
plenty of complaints:
most commonly, they're too light—so often
they're swept up by a passing wind.
(At least the scarecrows are posted down.)
And what are they made of?—all that
dust and straw and powdered lapis. All that
essence dries their throats. One finds
he's up all night longing for a glass of water.
A shot of Gabriel shaking his head
in the moonlight: It's not what I expected,
he says, still watching the house
across the field, where a window has filled
with the underwater light of a television.
The scarecrow shrugs on his cross—
Ain't what I expected either, he mutters
through his sewn mouth.
-poems.com
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