The Burning Ones

The seraphim hovering over the city
thunder holy holy holy.
They moan and moan

that lone word—a prayer
strangled in their sober throats. We hoist
umbrellas to joust their sobs

flushing from above like crushed stars.
We ignore that gold chord

and droning. We know nothing
of glory. The sky, to the polluted eye,
black as asphalt.