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  Sassetta has him feeling no pain, comfortable even, Yet stiffly dignified at an odd angle like the statue Of a fallen tyrant, beaten in proxy by his delirious subjects   His halo falls with him yet retains its rectitude, Remains a perfect corona for that saintly demeanour He knows his martyrdom’s assured, his place in heaven reserved   But the devils are bending and leaping, as much taunters as torturers One pulls his cave-dark hair and raises a club to smash the heaven-bound brains From the skull  Another, monkey-like, clubs the sacred legs beneath his cloak   A third is poised with gigantic reddened jaws where his genitals should be, About, it seems, to bite the saint in half  His back sprouts snakes and wings Behind them all, a serene landscape with squat, identical trees, is silent   The devils’ claws grip the earth while the hermit hovers over it, As if cut out of another painting  In life he’s already ascending I prefer their heat, their human dedication to the job in hand