The canvas dries slowly.
Angels organise themselves with feather lots.
There are muted discussions concerning
the Indian yellow sky.
Throughout the waiting smaller beings pretend they can grow.
Psalms are sewn, slender and insightful.
Several voices suggest extending a deadline no one else knew about.
In his wisdom, the chief of all things, is asleep.
Some of the angels feel cramped, ever so slightly vexed.
They have travelled this route a number of times.
They pull the clouds and sing into their vapours.
It is all as the artist intended.