Wrong Angels

The Judge of  Intentions sits lonely
in his silent, empty room
(where vestiges of our existence do not bring to mind
any significance of any kind).
He is above all paltry things,
& a joyless inebriation --
a sort of pride, though without passion --
makes him more or less than mortal.

Upon the dais, on a pedestal,
sprawled in his chair as though sleeping
he ponders, perhaps, of Before,
of the smiles of diffident fiends,
of the fretting cherubim,
of wrong angels who feigned to fawn
while he still delivered Judgement.

But Heaven has some fickle friends
& the Host has called its parliament
to a more auspicious place.

The lonely Judge sits in disgrace
& Ebal perhaps will crumble
to lie flat over Shechem.