Each Supple Thing with Wings

a poem for Richard’s 70th birthday

Angels make strange couplings –
each supple thing with wings
imbibes the message that the other brings –

an intimacy which amounts to this:
that in their highest state of bliss
they use their tongues, but not to kiss:

they whisper what they’re born to say,
imbue each other with the sway
of their ephemeral divinity: they pray

in that sweet way which sacrifices
differences – as it entices
to an ecstasy – which splices

into unity: new spun.
Expressed: they’re done.
Blessed, in One.





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