The angels howled for days.

Their lamentations snapped
over plundered canyons
smashing financial districts
everywhere.

The blue ones knit smoke-rings
with metal wings whining
under stresses.

None of us understood
the cost of such precision.

Over the bay, curlicues reminded us
of what’s done in our name.

A bottle of syrah & a joint on the roof
when the sky let in its poison
light. It has always been thus—
the filters stopped working is all.

Why not meet Armageddon
with a buzz on? Our atoms
break down, settle
into the new reality.

The sky was golden for a moment
before the end but it couldn’t stay—
we all knew that.

Someone say a prayer.