Last Touch

Each ripe sunset, angels fall from the sky
broken into chrome shards — chapel stained glass
we take them away to beatify.

These sinful holy things thrown out to die
we piece them back together on the grass
each ripe sunset angels fall from the sky.

Gleaming, I catch the color of his eye
dulled by death, the same amber as topaz
I take him away to beatify.

My hands work to revive and sanctify
beauty that sets the world to an impasse
each ripe sunset angels fall from the sky.

Then I am God, each movement satisfies
a sinful urge to corrupt and trespass
I hide this angel away to make mine.

Wanted in death alone — undignified
among flowers we hold this final mass
each ripe sunset angels fall from the sky
we take them away to beatify.