it was eleven am when all the angels went gallivanting
out to tea, with all their pretty heads on all their pretty
necks. they had quite forgotten how to dine, and even
the waiters knew that perhaps they weren’t used to
the marvel of being alive. how they shrieked at the
hand dryers in the bathrooms, and watched on in
rapture when food came out on china plates. how
they murmured amongst themselves at the bend
and snap of their cutlery. how their words glowed
when they said grace. they didn’t understand yet;
the push and pull of the moon, the rise and fall of
the sun or when the skies got dark and why. ever
alight, it was clear they never got around to dropping
the habit of youth. radiant and wily and hungry.
glistening with the joys of humanity, though they
were just voyeurs to their own bodies. soon enough,
they left the restaurant and each vessel kissed their
neighbour on the cheek. until next time, they said,
whether that be a month or millennia. and then, they
filtered out onto the pavement, with halos smothering
the lampposts, and wondered why the world was dark.
