With More Passionate Flying
“The aungel of depnesse” — rev. ix.ii wyclif bible(1382)
What would the Throne that held me clasp with, utter?
Nothing. He's bodiless, voiceless. Same with the salamandrine
Cherub, fire-breather whose cry is more fumarole than noise. Awe
at the unconsuming source, drawn there, adhered to in a quantum motion,
electron spun from a proton of light. Imagine
letters suddenly speaking caught up in a flame on the threshold of speech.
Angels & Archangels...come kneeling. They mouthe
passionate Latin euphemisms & Hebrew incised on the Godhead.
Tallow. Soft. Wax from tapers.
Words of angels are fuel for constant light. Gripped up in
the future of this furnace,
what use is moaning? Soundwaves startle the ghost-forms like solar flares
burn space — : momentary irradiation from a small star.
Leaving science fiction blisters.
Messengers & satellites-: the heavenly order is no more or less.
In the quick of time, moths & hummingbirds exchange their purposes so
that nectar is for a second
light. A pugnacious trochilidus draws his food from the tulips
of air molecules; a sphinx moth
dusts sugars with the pumice from its wings.
A veteran of angelic battle had said: abandon your own space to birds.
But birds will neither increase nor decrease their flight at this gesture.
The world turns; it hisses inside a diadem of vibrating electrons
migrating deeper, always farther inward.