Metal in the air |
| Brimstone in the lungs |
| Breathe deeply of it |
| The wind is carrying the pictures |
| The rain is muttering the names |
| The wind-chimes in my garden ring like keys |
| To all the stolen doors. |
We are the grandchildren of apes, not angels |
| But only we are gifted with the eyes to see |
| On days without f e a r, when our heads are clear |
| That angels, we could be. |