Once when the sky
burst open and down
came creatures, twisting,
screaming, wings outstretched,
falling, falling,
a poet looked
up. He tried to turn
away, but could not.
Falling, writhing, down,
out of his sight.
He felt the need
to tell a tale of
what he had just seen:
the creatures, the screams,
the fall, the fall.
The creatures were
angels — he became
convinced of this fact —
falling from heaven,
exiles. Exiled.
They were rebels.
Hate-filled, overweening,
ambitious. God had
exiled them, forced them
out of heaven.
He turned away,
went inside to write.
Outside, flawless sky
and fertile warm earth,
perfect and still.