For Octavio
There's a book called
"A Dictionary of Angels."
No one has opened it in fifty years
I know, because when I did
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered
The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away
Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows
The library is a quiet place
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Pa**es every day on her rounds
She's very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening
The books are whispering
I hear nothing, but she does