How quickly must the falling angels fall to set the algebra of all that’s human?
Didn’t we know there were no abstractions? Didn’t we always know
Everything sails toward resurrection?
I know as a son of The Enlightenment I should be suspicious
Of the sky. But the angels throw back their long hair
Saying the soul turns simple once more, that it was always simple.
We are better than the proteins that animate us.
We can simplify. We can again say we abjure violence,
That we shall live daily by the golden rule.
“Why not?” the angels say. Those who weep for this world of distances and shadows.
A man is a question asked of another question, the indefinite
The sole body
In which we properly live.
It is spring again. Time to burn the dead winter grass.
And so we ache and plant and turn again to love our neighbors…
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 