The trouble with angels
is that they buckle at the waist,
bellies overlapping where their genitals should be.
The trouble is that they've always got an eye on the clock,
are always reckoning the time till Judgment Day.
The trouble is their wings won't lie
flat on the bed once we've gotten them
that far; the trouble is that, by
necessity, they have to be on top.
The trouble is the insane desire we feel
to pluck their wings feather by feather.
The trouble is that by day they look so lovely
but glowing in the dark by night so frightening.
The trouble with angels is that the world has provided no place for them.