And what we are
A throw of some dice
Onto ground that blossomed
Suddenly centering the infinitude of space so
That turning, the Angelus Novus, weeping to us.
We should not see.
We are blind to this
And to what it sees:

The complacent warm self-regard
Of the good doctor an urbane blessing
In a world of churches, guildhalls & little hills
In which reason & experience enlighten slowly
The absurd ignorances of Norfolk & of Greece
To be at the centre unknowingly
Of a world slowly trundling off
Out of God's control, then man's
There just as it sets off
It can't see where it might not yet settle.