THE MOMENT OF THE WORLD

The better words we have

are the feathers on the wings

of effervescent angels

who'd prefer the poets of the earth

to cease staring in the mirror

of their self-assigned appellation

and leave the library, the desk,

that place where the muse goes to

wither,and walk out the door,

Take the elevator down 

and then a train out of town over mountains a

nd state lines to cities for that perfect cup of coffee,

that lingering kiss on a stranger's lips,

the waiting for traffic lights

at odd intersections

and with not a clue

about which way to turn

in this unfamiliar confusion.

Our angels might take 

their feathers back

if something isn't done.

Imagine us finally 

in the Day of Miracles

with cats and dogs

saints and shitheads

having civil meals,

tending to each other's wounds

and not one of us

gets the itch and tickle

to write a word or two

wholly inadequate as witness

but scribed at the moment

of the world,

not above it.

That would be shame.