Bad Poet

Browsing the Bible for a passage on
an angel to limn love or freedom or
passion or an imprint in the melting
snow, all manner of emotions caught on
a wispy breeze soaring higher toward
paradise, bliss in their feather wings like
thin pages flipping over fingertips.
Such hope ascribed to simple desire –

it's addictive like arousal
and destructive all the same and

to want,
though pale,
drives hard.

So, the perquisition persists on from
Gabriel to Uriel, Michael and
Metatron and I reached the cover so
woebegone as it closed and the Good Book
itself appeared to animate and yell:

"Angels had no fucking wings."