Angels Out of Tune

Hailstones pierce the memory, passing storm;
Eyes enchanted skyward wondering at the rain.
In a dry land, with existential dust doubting
Trembles a salamander bursting forth
In sizzling flame.

Wrinkled landscape, scrubby hedged;
A biting ground that hungers for feet,
Thirsts for the venom dripping from a serpent’s tongue –
The ague of a virus defending
Its last criminal intent.

There are derelictions of duty, explosive accusations
In the eyes of panting cretins,
Whose vesper songs are heralded by angels out of tune –
Falling like some Doppler sketch, a blue shift
On a nightingale’s wing.

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