Nine Sullen Angels
Published in
1 min readOct 28, 2016
Nine sullen angels, brows furrowed,
someone stole a page from the Book of Life
and heads are going to roll;
what could worry spirits made of light,
sexless beings born for eternity’s splendor,
singers in the holy halls?
Some lacuna, the evidence is evident
torn sheaf, like some palm on a Sunday,
laid out for a carpet
beneath a braying donkey’s step,
flies buzzing in the wake, as Gomorrah
frantically picks up tossed coins.
Judas was a party planner,
sought out investors in this new enterprise;
turned losses into profits, lips to ears,
softly whispered quarterly reports
new inventions on the horizon,
prospectus in the mail.
This potter’s field speculation,
embrace the risk,
this Pascal’s divination,
you’d better be quick.
