Angels in the Dumpster
Inside the pillared library a gaggle
of students are penning purple epics
about angels. When they have spent all their
metaphors, depleted their bandoleers
of profundities, each reads to the group
what they have wrought. Everyone murmurs Yes.
good. That is so cool. Meanwhile outside, city crews,
preparing for winter, swing long rods, knock
seed pods from the well-trimmed trees, raking them
to the dumpsters. The pods hold minute beings,
homunculi with shimmering wings. The pods
puzzle the workmen’s rough fingers. They cock
a chapped ear to unearthly strings in
perfect harmony. It drifts away. Though good men,
they do not succumb to the spiritual.
Back in the library, the poets name their angels,
waiting to be dazzled. At the smoldering dump,
animals forage. When they hear the music,
they chatter wildly. Then the pods burst open
and the little men, singing, rise up, swirling
in the holy sparks. There are no humans here
to kneel. Only small creatures, trembling,
transfixed and glorified by this strangeness.