We discover the inferno in heaven, God cremating His angels 
 
one by one, setting their robes alight.  Hurling them in flames 
across the blackness of  space 
while humanity in its fond hopefulness imagines shooting stars.  Suppose 
 
the smoke from his glory constitutes clouds, while the Blaze turns 
paradise into a gulf beach in August, 
all breezes spent, the old bodies crisping in their thin coats of oil.
 
Then, as the world lingers, simmering with lies under a hot firmament, 
ignoring its fiery entrails, believing 
in the manifest gospel of air conditioning, 
 
suppose my hair catches fire from your incandescent heart,
our wings flame up, subject to spontaneous combustion, 
 
and we incinerate in parabolic sweep over the flashing sand.