He stands, filling the doorway
In the shell of earth.

He lifts wings, he leaves the remains of something,
A mess of offal, muddled as an afterbirth.

His each wingbeat — a convict’s release.
What he carries will be plenty.

He slips behind the world’s brow
As music escapes its skull, its clock and its skyline.

Under his sudden shadow, flames cry out among
    thickets.
When he soars, his shape

Is a cross, eaten by light,
On the Creator’s face.

He shifts world weirdly as sunspots
Emerge as earthquakes.

A burning unconsumed,
A whirling tree —

Where he alights
A skin sloughs from a leafless apocalypse.

On his lens
Each atom engraves with a diamond.

In the wind-fondled crucible of his splendour
the dirt becomes God.

But when will he land
On a man’s wrist.