This will never do. Get the bird
Of gold enamelling out of the den.
I’m reading. Gin, white as winter sun,
Is blending juniper with oxygen.
Divinity is imminent. In the parlour
The crystal tinkling into words
Announces the arrival, through the mirror,
Of the host of stars and hummingbirds.
The angels have come early for the miracle.
They’ve gotten into the bar and drunk it dry.
Grinning, staggering, shedding feathers,
They can barely stand up, let alone fly.
One armoured, peacock-feathered cherub
Holds my copy of th future to the glass
And reads backwards (as they do in heaven)
Of how this evening will come to pass.
The seraphim are fencing on the lawn.
Thrust and parry, tipsy physical chess.
‘The Conversation of the Blades’, the call it,
The actual clink and whirr, the holiness.