Don’t say anything just now,
But angels are around us,
In the silverware, the lines of glasses
On the shelf.
I wouldn’t speak to them just yet,
They are not ready for us. Purity has shaped their sight,
And we are shocking to their eyes, at best.
Commanded to extend their touch to fallen ones, they are reluctant.
Who can blame them? They cut themselves
On the sharpness of our minds,
And run back bleeding, straight to God,
Who gathers up his children, binds their wounds,
And listens to their tears.
Who owns the stories now? Our words are weapons,
Heaven trembles at the sight of our transgressions.
Have we no shame, that we send the shining ones
Back to the place they came from,
Filled with horrors? There will be
A reckoning, for all is seen.