When the angels heard an old one wake –
a black supernova, eye crack
deep in the centre of the ‘verse,
trained on earth, and dreaming dead dreams

they made sure Dave got a guitar.
The birds stopped singing for a week,
just to listen, but he was kept
rapt by the way his fingers swept

chords it seemed from inner spaces,
unleafing. He joined a band, and
they did okay. But that was all
just celestial practice for

the time he was needed. The cloud
of darkness was drawing near – felt
in quarrels in the studio,
in breakups in the near future

and the slitherings of money.
The angels watched with bristling wings –
here it came. The moment planned for
so long ago. The room was dark.

At the first solo, the beast wept,
but ploughed the stars for earth still –
at the second, it screamed and tore
apart, raining down. Dave just smiled.