The sun has exploded in a black sky, but the angel,
	preoccupied by demons of his own devising, stares fixedly
Into a middle distance only angels care about. Dürer
	was onto something, but meditation is overrated.
While the angel was tilting at mantras, his dog was fading,
	dear faithful Cosmo, he who had followed 
Through all the rings of Being and the ten thousand zones
	of torment, he who never questioned
The wisdom of flying, or cursing god, or dancing
	on the heads of pins—old unquestioning creature
Not nagging or asking why or where as he was dragged
	by a leash of molten gold from torture to beatitude,
Garden to comet, sin to blessing to vastation—worn out
	with his master’s infinite dissatisfied agitation,
He closed his eyes. And you, winged genius of despair,
	you want to know why you are thus blighted with angst?
God takes his vengeance in obvious ways. Check out the doors
	of your perception, asshole. Look around. Your dog is dead.