Old angels, stinking
With a rank smell in their humid feathers,
In their thinning hair,
Their skin peeling off in patches of psoriasis,
Maps of terrifying
Unknown lands,
Furrowed, scored, and scratched.
Too sad to bring good news,
Too thin to wield the sword of fire,
They sink half-asleep into the earth,
Like seeds being planted
In the rheumatic joints of wings,
Deeper and deeper in the ground,
Older and older, more and more human . . .