Impossible to distinguish sin
from reward for not sinning.
So many plump buttocks up in the air!
And not a harp in sight.
The clouds are green
& appear to be anchored.
Perhaps they are trees
or overflowing garbage skips.
Dogs must’ve been
the true chosen ones,
judging by their noise & numbers
& the scarcity of cats.
All the angels are fallen—
some just a little farther.
Their wings move in unison, shaken
by the same wind.
A saint’s bald pate glimmers
through the hole in his halo:
a newborn crowning, a boil,
a target for the sun.
I love this boisterous poem!
Thanks, Robbi! I should acknowledge that got a couple ideas from Rachel Rawlins, with whom I shared a first draft yesterday via Skype. She’s responsible for the garbage skips and the dogs.