By A. E. Marlowe
I close my eyes under the covers and see this:
Two million seraphim in Speedos, on God-errand
Freestyling through the ether. Their jaws
Slice further with every stroke, them
Gasping for divinity on alternate hands.
Some three million-odd others are butterflying
—Because they can—to unurgent callings.
I wonder if also God tolerates
Fat stupid cherubim blowing bubbles in the deep end.
