Of All Those Hapless Angels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Right now I trust her, while the bees spread her
Blossoms,
And the charms are lost into lavish green living rooms
After school:
She finds her own way home again, stuck well behind
The crown of thorns,
In the rucksack of the Mexican neighborhood
Who made its way all the way over here,
Crenellated by the sun who geysers as he always does:
And she stays home again
And gives her milk to her children, but she promises
That she thinks of me; and I hope that she always does,
Until our neighborhoods can bleed together
Straight underneath the harps and toenails of all those
Hapless angels.