In the Witches’ Hut

 The angles come to visit

They slide down the steep muddy walls

Of the volcano to enter

Where — past he doorways of time—

The first fog still lives.

Their bodies float waiting outside

For the old woman to finish stirring

the future in bronze cups.

She serves them one by one

Until the future is all used up,

As far as her memory will go,

until semaphores of fire smoke

From a distant mountain top

Become undecipherable messages .

The angels come to visit

And to drink, their wings

Unfold with their understanding.

When you meet one on the

Street,

Like I did once, coming out

Of that movie “Zorba the Greek”, and I

Was dancing —

I kissed the first girl I saw

And was blessed.