From THE VARIOUS REASONS OF LIGHT 

OBSOLETE ANGEL

This one can't fly: he's got
    stubby wings, he's old
as space or time;  he's gone
    to fat.  And now he even
disregards the omens that he never
    should have learned to read
at all:  blistered skies,
    the sticky secrets
in the bowels of toads.
    He's used up his store
of magic, he's half-blind,
    but he's crusty
as good bread and willing:
    in the moonlight,
he struggles up the shadows
    towards god, hears   
the wheezing orchestration
    of embodied lives
-- he always sings low,
    his one hoarse note,
always tumbles down to where
    we save him again
and again he falls
    like a hailstone
from some heaven
    and we will save him.

See the cover of The Various Reasons of Light
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