ANGELS

They don’t use words much:

they sing - manmade choirs,

 not their thing.

They lift the people up, en masse

and soar on wings of joy,

every chord an instrument of flight,

a weightless engine

that cracks gravity into anti-matter

and unbearable beauty.

We touch the tips, aghast, alight

shivered, shimmered into shards

of edgeless molecular transfiguring:

bits of synaesthetic earth gone wild.