I’ve got angels at my elbows
tapping on my shoulder
with such reserved delicacy
it’s no surprise I almost never know they’re there.
There’s an ache in the chambers
of the seraphim,
an urgency in their auras –
they have no fingers to reach out
with the tenderness of heaven,
no lips to kiss bruised and confused faces,
no voices to encourage others
to speak, and to listen.
They’re asking all day long,
with nervous benevolence,
if we’d please be alright with holding
messengers in our fingertips?
If, perhaps, it’d be possible
for us to crack open our souls
to let love run like honey over them?
Whether, provided we’re not too busy,
we’d allow Connection’s emissaries
to treat our flesh and bone
as a boarding house for the jolts
and pulsing waves of unbridled compassion
that push out into the sunshine,
where we’ve all been looking for it