The Hunger of Heaven

It is a part of the making of sense
the simple desire of the angel
to ascend down to the smart earth
among the yellow bee
and the salty lips of the senses

To taste the sweet citrus
on the other side
of the bite of the apple
to wade deep
into the warm wet
on the other side
of the parted skin

It is a part of the making of sense
to stand under
the winter street lamp
and to hear stillness
louder and louder
beneath the silent
slow falling snow
coming down
and down
not forever
but till everything is
patient in the white coat

To leave the smooth dumbness of eternity
for the dark ache of the tooth,
the love of the urge to lie,
is a part of the drive that drives
the angel’s simple desire
to ascend down to
the sharp burst of the touch,
the honest hunger of the eye

It is a part of the making of sense
to leave diaphanous wings and
the clear weightless gown for
the green paint of a park bench
next to the secret sadness in
the old man with the dirty coat,
who watches the hands of lovers,
who takes his one strong hand
to the bed of his one room to
guide his need to their feast

To see once,
when you stand alone
in silent wood,
the brown deer, still,
in the scent for water

It is a part of the hunger of Heaven
when one has tired of
the light’s teasing, the
sticky lust of the will,
the heart’s fear,
of love,
to find a way back
steeper than the wood animal.