Why shouldn't we set fire

to the angels dropping

out of the sky like so many

raindrops in a thunderstorm?

They have forsaken us,

forsaken Lucifer, their own

kin. The angel that rocketed

downward like a meteor.

One blazed through the night

over wheat fields in Kansas,

the only witness a child who

wished on him as a shooting star.

It is easy to lose yourself

in the windswept depths

of soul-piercing eyes,

tears thick as acrid smoke.

Swaddle them like screaming

infants, chained wings wrapped

around ribcages, ribcages wrapped

around grace and heavenly flesh.

They will be gone by morning,

leaving us with only

imprints, the shadows

of a nuclear aftermath.

I have felt them and know

I will not forget the

feather that brushed my cheek

or the hand that grasped my soul.