The first angels were swarthy, stooped,
hairy, with sloping foreheads
and crested skulls,
arms down to the knees.  In place of wings
they had two parachutes of skin,
a kind of black flying squirrels
in the volcanic winds.

Totally trustworthy.
They performed outstanding miracles.
Transubstantiations.  Metamorphoses
of mud into mudfish.
A rocking horse
inflated to heavenly size,
atomic fusion at room temperature,
holding the mirror up to the spectator,
stirrings of consciousness,
creating the majesty of death.

They worked hard. 
They tinkered with graves.
They swam in murky waters.
They huddled in oviducts.
They hid behind the door.
They waited.

                          They waited in vain.