Lucifer in Twilight

Behind the closed eye to one door
The poet sits on a park bench
Beneath the breath of heaven
In a dreadful wake of sleep

Knitting his new suit of wing
Like a minister before an altarpiece
He has been at it (this miracle?)
For several weeks, at risk of being

Overtaken by his own hydra
(why call it curse?) of toil
Bound to the heroic bullring

Of lousy revolt, to his memory’s
Huge bulk, which still beats
For knowledge of the highest candle.