It’s the pixies that make F-350’s
And subwoofers and sirens
And most such things,
So we won't hear
The flutter of their wings.

Death is the Sculptor’s chisel.
Its sharp, slow blade
Carves the shapes life takes.
Plankton and pianists,
Lions and tigers and lambs,
And whatever’s yet to be,
Death makes from stardust,
As it made you and me.

What good I do,
I do willy-nilly
And here and there,
Charity in the second degree,
Unpremeditated —
Except at tax time.
But there are among us —
I know one —
Devil hunters,
Sworn assassins of sorrows,
Career soldiers
In a war against the
Fallenness of the world.
Some of these — most, I expect —
Were drafted to the brigades
By the awful gravity of suffering.
Others — the one I know —
Came to the cause impelled
Not just by heart’s imperative,
But by considered judgment.
Reason, for him, required a
Constant, vigilant, inventive charity.
One needn’t believe in God
To believe in angels.

Dissect me.
Make the most careful study
Of every little piece and part,
Organ by organ,
This tissue and that,
Down to my cells
And proteins
And amino acids
And molecules
And atoms
And protons
And neutrons
And electrons
And quarks —
And strings?
Parse everything.
And you won’t know me.