By this time of the evening, most everyone’s
gathered inside their rooms gazing at the television,
all hovered over by vaguely restless guardian angels.
From the street, the soft warming glow emanating
from their windows affirms the holiness of electricity,
and the longing for some transpersonal communion.
Strolling together down the middle of the boulevard
on this cooling late summer night, twirling my cane in the air
like a Batonnière, I’m accompanied by a motley parade
of curious angels, invoked by my Darling and I
for no particular reason but the simple joy
of angelical companionship.
Cats on porches along Estudillo respond
with mixed meows, some alarmed, some disarmed,
some just liking to meow, beside themselves
in their pure angelic cattiness.
God told Moses,
“It’s all praise, and it’s all right!”
All the world is one darling angel,
watching over the myriad forms of itself,
and regardless of how we might think
of it all, it’s loving what it sees!
Who could not feel praise arise tonight
in the middle of a street called Estudillo?
My Beloved and I hold hands like kids,
smiling from ear to ear!
We’re the same at heart.
When we hear that lonesome train sound
in the darkened distance, spontaneous angels
whoosh right in, leaving us good as goners.
Each train we hear is the very first one,
each time for the very first time, and yet
there is something uncannily familiar
that echoes in the space between sounds,
unheard by the keen etheric ears
of even the nearest angels.
It’s the sound the train makes
when it’s come to stop, after the angels
curl to rest, after the yearning echo ends.
This is the sound we all come from,
this to which we now raise praise:
on a street called Estudillo.