The Topiary of the Angels
Imagine it now: the hedges trimmed
into cherubic little seraphim, forbidden fruits
sculpted into a haze of green,
even Cupid and Psyche
enraptured, eyes opened, entwined
in the shape of a bush,
and who really is to know
whether it was the messenger Gabriel
or the archangel Michael
who descended, chainsaw
in hand, to make of this unruly garden
such fine contours, such
immaculate destinies, and whether
the untrimmed protrusions, still yearning
heavenwards, were merely an omission
or something left intentionally to remind us
that, even here, the untidy has its moments
of triumph, sinews of disobedience
still yearning for disorder, speaking
in their deep green quietude
of God only knows what.