You turn your back on an angel,
and swear you'll set it straight some time.
Sort it out, you guess,
except,
these fangs keep coming back
and this venom burns on contact
curdles the blood.

They never mention that just sometimes
you must rend the body from the serpent's head.

Trust that I know many secrets,
and of those kept, stolen, or borrowed,
the ones I withhold from you
are what strip angels of flight
and leave them in gutters
with alcohol dampening their feathers

too heavy to fly.