At the End of the Day

This laundry basket of dramatic words,
dream, angel, grief, ocean. Wear these,
in your mind’s eye, and you will look so beautiful,
nobody will be able to describe you,
never mind the homeliness of your nose and chin,
you will simply inspire.

Nobody ever can describe an angel. Messenger,
we say, a technical term, like mail carrier.
An angel is somebody weary, maybe ill,
whose eyes are so full of suffering
they connect to yours with a dream like joy. But
the angel’s letter, wordless.

That’s god’s little joke, the gift of immensity
to our tiny lives, our illusion, our costume
of radiance. It’s late, I’m tired. No more drama,
please. I look at my bedside clock,
painted with plump naked frogs swimming
in its three-inch sky-blue pond.

Isn’t It Wonderful
Archangels of Childhood