Your favorite poet
writes the type of poems that,
when you’re there reading them,
It feels like maybe the world makes sense after all
In all its seemingly coordinated horrors
And accidental shocks of beauty.
And perhaps there was some warmth inside that cold, dead heart
And yet the poem also reminds you that there are no angels.
Not now, not then, not ever,
But there were the saints,
though the saints were only people.
And plenty of them were terrible, and plenty of them were pretty okay.
Just like your favorite poet.
