I picture him in winter, mostly:
A half-forgotten face, uncommon man-shape
In southern cities where he could not be.
I hear him playing to an empty church,
Notes ricocheting round a birdless sky:
He, who could have made a new religion.
He goes by fields, crossing sour northern ditches,
Clutches the rail, the rust flaking off in his hand:
A stranger in a green, wind-bitten land.
Why does my Lucifer fold away
His fiery wings? Why does he hide
With the blameless and the earthen?
He, who had such a talent for destruction.