He had been in paradise
Surrounded by a whole flotilla of angels
Each reflecting like mirrors
The warmth of the father;
We’ll talk of this later. Well done,
My son. Stand back, to the angels
Their hot wings pressing like a feather
Mattress. Rest tonight and tomorrow
In the room next to mine
Tomorrow when you’re feeling recovered
I have a proposition to put to you —
It involves going back. A spasm crossed
The wounds, a few drops of blood fell
On the floor. No, not that, my son
But to show there’s no misunderstanding between us
Remember the last dark words and the sky.
The angels gagged me then by my orders in case
I intervened. Just to see a few friends
Walk round a bit like happier times
Be in their rooms without locks. Console them
Show yourself to the ones who seemed sorry.
The angels will take care of the stone.