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Every Angel

December, 2005

Every angel holds a pigeon on her head.

Each leader blinks from eyes of stone

His bitter disdain for shit-soaked rain.

Which leads me to observe nature holds

No opinion, few alternatives. Nature shits.

She churns mountains’ molecules, turns in the tide

tired migratory whales, beats back the ships.

She planted truthful trees, handled every rock,

gripped sticks like thoughts. Nature shits,

no pause to moralize. Fire ants do nothing wrong,

nor hurricanes foreseen as fierce, bent beyond

geometry when the sea suddenly bends. Only we

regret, only we too late repent: not this, not this!

until the solid mountains deeply press our bones.

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