Angels

They want most what they missed when
they were embodied, accumulating
all the wrong things: wealth, accolades, 
promotions, degrees and titles.
They see that most of us are grim, earnest,
jogging along like sheep. They urge 
more dancing, another game of hopscotch 
and then a nap. They want us to sing 
in eight-part harmony, full-throated.
They want us to meet our true love,
to laugh, to kiss the toes of babies, 
to have more orgasms. Do that, they say,
when we kiss each other, yes, yes, 
they whirl around us, celebrating. Yes. 
“Remind us,” they whisper, “of sensation.”