Let it just be said
that I went up to do a one-nighter
with archangel Gabriel.
His embouchure breathes soul into a Bach Stradivarius trumpet
that he inherited from his father.
His fine bony fingers do the talking,
playing dolce and dolcissimo to not intrude on the bird-chatter
of fluttering doves under the canopy of the firmament.
Everything is stilled when dancers stop and listen
to the liquid gold of his chromatic glissando.
Later, he hits a double-high C, that only a dog can hear.
His arrangement of Ciribiribin is hummed and strummed
by every Venetian gondolier.
His radiant tunes are heard by unseen ears on faraway stars.
Angels can’t sit still and must get up and dance.