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Vessels of Small Craft
The
small craft of an Angel:
A
solid, ceaselessly mobile trunk,
Wings
of unnumbered flap
And
the frictionless inchhigh glide
Programmed
into the toes.
All
this gives God the lesser headache
Compared
with that which will brew
In
the building of the mortal beast.
For
the entropy of frailty is a subtle algorithm.
Innate
obsolescence, you might call it, or death.
This
rub for Him that has to be
The
inescapable rub for each of us,
Has
to render each of us an integer
Where
angels must spin off into irrational
Unrepeating
nuance. This snowflake boggler,
As
we see it, calms the Eternal; who says
'Stick
to what you know' albeit a human adage.
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