Suppose angels drift like salt
or gracile jellyfish.
That at the core of an infant’s cry
armies of angels reside.
That angels are a peculiar lot,
flitting like moths around a candlewick
or trap of warm cinders.

Suppose they pour kisses over your eyes
or tickle your palms with a feather.
That one, who stands away from the rest,
has invented a new weather –
both improbable and comic.

Consider angels exploiting
your predilection toward sin,
taunting your hunkered-down mind,
goading you to slouch lower,
gloating by the graveside.
That they’re not angels at all,
but the reflection of men
in a bucket of black water.

You wouldn’t go back on your promises then,
would you old friend?
You wouldn’t regret living?