“a secret door leading to a world for the special people or prisoners”
The messenger is present, somehow, in the midst
Of the messages. Angels are ink. Angels
Do not care to eat meat. Angels say this.
Ghosts say that. Gods scurry them along.
Somehow, in the midst of all these messages,
The messenger is present, however evanescent,
The nothing in the nothing much, the coyote
Slipping through the underbrush, checking over
The shoulder to make sure the coast is clear. Precious
Professors set themselves a task too clever
By half, arranging deep thoughts as words in boxes,
Giving in to the temptation to count things, not counting
The footnotes proving what they’ve read outside
The little boxes. Not only coyotes, but foxes. The birds
Sing anyway. Birds have to sing. Angels, incidentally,
Can be ghosts and voiceless. Silent messages sent
By silence, which is not the messenger, nor quiet, quite.
Almost. The absence present, somehow, in the midst
Of all the messages, the absence present as the ghost.
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