This sick man - he counts terrifying angels
from the canyon of his bed
They number up. They rabble like seagulls
on the curtain rail and skirting, fighting to be fed
They lumber up, they babble, they mass
in the money tin, the winestain, mouldy bread
excited by the perfume of his sickness
Angels enough to pay the ransom
he doesn't know was sent from his address
postmarked, stamped and labelled 'handsome'
With every hour of doubt, they come in spades
He knows it's time to change into the garcon
and balance on his hands her shoulderblades
like two full plates of girl. Time to spurn
the heralds and their manic night-time raids
His head is full. There's nothing left to learn
