Who has time for the sodden agony of angels?
They fall, like dimes, fattened gnats
from the heavens—
the architecture of their wings?
and hingeless they open,
plied by too many hands.
Who has time for their keening?
Like dying rabbits, they leave
trails of sound you recognize:
that old aching pressed up against the bedroom wall.
Don’t cry, someone might be saying,
Who will catch these tufted, fleshy creatures
their beautiful dark hair floating
Who among you
will help me hold them?