New photo, new poem


I am not a good man.
No need of a god to confess
that one to,
to offer penance—
passion’s ashes and a spent bag of wind—
every god’s treasure:
Another sorry old man
like Himself.

Or so the old ones say.
Not old like me, you understand,
but older-better, wiser, deader:
Eternal life, salvation, all of that.
That’s not what I’m after—what comes after.
I’ve had a glimpse, caught a whiff.
That changes things, the small disaster.
Tenses shift.
Time is altered.
I have not been a good man.

Angels in the National Gallery

Sarah and I vacationed in DC and took advantage of its many socialist pleasures like public transportation and art museums.  Since I’m writing about angels, I went hunting in the Renaissance and came back with some interesting images.  Check out the colorful wings on this flock:

My favorite, however, has to be this Nativity with the tiny angels just visible in the top of the stable, and an air traffic controller guiding them in: