A Tabulation of Angels

The same as in the chamber of an atom,
Three angels can dance on the head of a pin –
Not necessarily at the same moment.
The number of sands contained in the mountain
Will equal exactly those blown in the wind
When, at last, the mountain comes to Muhammad.

At the end of days, empyrean minions
Will blow out candles and watch our films
Of holocausts and atomic explosions –
Almost beautiful when viewed from their distance.
The planet will be silent save sprockets’ tick
As angelic critics make last judgments.

They will see footage of cities in ruin,
Mounds of naked corpses bulldozed into pits,
Bullets being sprayed at rock-flinging children;
Aerial shots of crow-black bombs falling.
All will be equal in the tally of death –
A pile of ash of everything human.

The angelic orders pray for the victims
And also the souls of those who’ve committed
Horrific violence, they see no difference –
All souls are equal, just some souls are damaged.
As the voice of brothers’ blood cries from the earth,
The healing of angels is that they listen.

On slippers of dust, the angels go drifting
Through the city. Windows light up in the dim
Light of dusk, then go out, deep in the evening
Like apocalypse stars falling from heaven.
Angels blow out stars in the gray light of dawn –
In this even light, all might be forgiven.
Asks, points at his bomb-riddled land:
It lies on the ground like Honor,
Half a body, a head, a hand.