It's a dog shit thaw, my springtime in the city.

Months of unchecked feces forming eddies in the sun (warmer by the day but shivering now in spite of my leather jacket. despite the cigarette. stale beer staining my belly and one red-eye chasing the promise of a dream if not a few useful hours of sleep).

And it stinks.

Fucking stinks.

Reeking the old high kind of heaven that woke the last known son of God from the gentle majesties he'd known and loved just to make him one of us.

As if it was our fault.

Like we'd brought it on.

And I imagine a conflagration of angels. A smarmy set that escaped Satan's charge only to live in the one tawny recess of forever that omnipotence allows (not for lack of trying, of course, but there are kittens to put down) which is fine by them, just fine. Leaves them ample room to cull certain fates and defy in private, sitting Indian style and perfecting their whispers.

I imagine them plotting it all out. Skin and point. Time and arrows. Sure as shit that they'll find satisfaction in the one unerring curse that slipped cracked lips.

Then I step in.

But won't give a damn until morning.

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