The risen Christ shuffles along
the alley, trailing the scent of wine
and cigarette ash. His tears fall, each one
an angel in a profusion of feathers.
They are lifted by this veil of rain
and the loose spiral of smoke
from his mouth, small lips open
to the sky and hungry among the rafters
of the crumbling factory where they gather
before dusk. They are bodies
of distilled devotion, wingbeats coded
into sacrifice. Only the snap 
of the lighter in his cupped hands
is halo enough to warm this choir.