Ironies were the angels
That one could count on the head
Of a pin. Where did they get
Pins anyway, in those days, and
Why did they imagine souls
Or spirits or God-made things
At least, squeezing onto them?
I know a secret secret.
Humans aren’t doing
Much of the imagining.
We’re cruel. Yes. We chase after
Each other with cages like
Mad butterfly collectors.
Go it, Charlie! We're not us.
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