Her doubts
The Angels go in, the Angels go out
The Angels pass through every needle’s eye
But here’s the question – here’s my doubt
Do even the Angels know why?
Hear me out, now, Mom and Dad
-
Maybe the Angels are just
incapable
Of posing the question of good and bad.
My theory is: Angels have no scruples.
To wrestle with them in a desert place
Say the closing time aisles of the liquor store
When its two in the morning and you know your face
Is a ruin, and even your tongue is sore
Is to wrestle with the force des choses
-
The world without problems,
the world resolved
Everything lit and precisely posed.
But not wingless me. I’ll never be solved.
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