top of page


Angels perched, crying tears of milk

their songs like lullabies, soft as velvet,

while the prophets are laying asleep.

An angel peeps between his fingers,

porcelain skin, almost broken, as he lights

his flambeaux.

A prophet sings a melody of praise

to angels,

and angels sing a melancholy dirge

to prophets,

while prophets are seeking the saints.

The saint, the saint is at his prayer,

as the twain of heaven meet.

At the chapel door, when evening comes,

four angels of the eight

whom angel and disciple know

answer the will of God.

Saint Mary, with the glass in her hand,

When the angel came to ask her:

Would she like it?

Would she?


Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page