Sooner or later it’s about angels.
News of heaven is so available,
coughing behind you in the library
or when you’re on the toilet. One day you’re
playing the saxophone, fingering its long
throat, you’re emptying your lungs. You think this is
like dying, the angel in the corner
puckering its lips to the taste of reeds.
Just keep blowing. Angels come from the world
of silence. They don’t even hear themselves.
Doesn’t mean they’re not talking all the time.
It’s what they’re condemned to. Hey, hey, look up!
You see right through them. Ignoramuses
speaking into your ear. Just don’t listen.
John Allman | Autumnal
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)