The master of the rebel angels let

them fall, their beating wings swept up

behind, forcing hot wind across

a crackled golden sky. They fell like dragonflies

at first, they glowed, but as they fell they

shrivelled, blackened, crisped into small

things, gnats or horseflies, cinders even,

motes of soot. They crashed into the world.

He turned his eyes away.

                                     Upstairs in heaven

things were orderly, the saints sat quiet

in their castled chairs, the air hummed

with an unsung hymn, the floor was clean

and cruel as glass and every feather, every

eye fixed in its bright perfection.