De Angelorum

It is just sentiment that crawls
About my head, around my bed,
Roughly proceeds, ends up scraping
The barking farm dogs far way

Chaps till the lips it's harping on
Are less lipsticked than, battered, mine;
Drinks till the 'eau de robinet'
Ten atoms to one, settles wine

And sentiment before novels
Meant much to think about; and still
It sounds like love let in on mind
Bred to angelic oversweep

I buy angels so long before
I let God in the basket-case
And even if they won't be there,
They're needed for, they thrill, the chase:

The old chant is a confused thing,
The mothers' loving heresy
The gives four dead, if wise, men wings
What then would Luke, the doctor, think?

Did he attain a case-study
With relevance to the doctrine
(Aquinas' sapling) of the pure
Untouchable, or Plato's sap?

What about fathers' heresies?
There's one about the grail, sure,
Which makes us see the golden throng,
The red, last, the transparent one -

Then she is one, my sentiment,
A neutral virtue fledged to pause,
Her sometime silver shimmer steel,
Under the overshadows' force.