Holy Night

angels polluted this place
hanging nacreously close to every turned head
each batted eye battered by luminous feathers
stricken senseless with immutable bliss
leaving traces on faces
glimmering opalescent as moth wing powder
as eyes go slack and wide
opening to the light of truth
as though salvation were hidden there
in the gaudy twinkling of stars on strings
in the hum of lightning coursing in tidy cables
in the oohs and aahs of parcels and packages
burning a heady path to the soul
while seraphim ground out their cigarettes
stamping feet and warming hands
at these all too infrequent fires.