Those were the years when the Flying Panini Brothers
would soar onto the modest void of their small tent
holding a rose’s stem between their teeth like a bear carries her cubs

As imperfect as they were, they thought they were angels;
on the ground they were fallible creatures, but in mid-air
they felt holy, like hummingbirds God made with His own hands

Those were the years when young women came back from the prom
with their brand-new dresses ripped under their coats
after some holy boy dropped them off at their homes

You could see them driving away, drunk and laughing
down the street, and disappear into a darkness that would last
forever in the young girls’ hearts

Those were the years where all of God’s voices led us to silence
to admire men because they seemed to glide under the circus tent,
unimpeached by conscience or society under their tiny capes

and now they are beginning to fall one at a time
like the fruit of a misshapen tree that finally dies
like impostors with wings who thought they were angels.