The
Angels of Poetry
By A. Poulin, Jr.
Encapsulated in a ball of glass,
in that vacuum they are nothing,
invisible to the naked human eye.
Still, they think they are all those
images they feed on and believe
their voices magnify them into gods
prophets speak of, stones adore.
But no one’s ever heard a thing
they’ve said. One was seen once:
a tiny thing, its head a speck
of mirror flashing a flea’s tooth.
Still, they believe and sing at
such an inhuman pitch only dogs
and porpoises can hear, and
everything around them vanishes.