Walking Seraphim
—rare as blue horses—
who burn with life,
who emit sparks,
whose words ricochet around the room.
You may ask them a simple question
and their spirits quiver, then suddenly expand
far beyond the boundaries of their bodies
like tidal surges,
like thunderous waves of green water and foam,
flushing away all grayness,
washing concrete down drains.
Poem © Blake Steele 1993