Angels

[hylas]

In the suburbs where the angels build
their duplex homes, public transport
is inadequate. The seraphim own SUVs
and shop at supermarkets. Their wings
brush frozen TV dinners—something
for the cherubim to pretend to eat
as they observe the seasons of our lives.

Sometimes someone subdivides the sheep
farms into exurbs. The shepherds dislike
the cul-de-sacs. The residents hate the commute. 

Of course, they can all teleport;
it's by choice they don't.
They're always desperate to resemble
us, but never manage to. 

Up there, the puddles are really windows
angels look down through. Like fishermen
on ice, they get down on hands and knees
and try to track what shapes are swimming
through the dimness
underneath their feet.

[purplie]

In the suburbs where the angels build
their duplex homes, public transport
is inadequate. The seraphim own SUVs
and shop at supermarkets. Their wings
brush frozen TV dinners—something
for the cherubim to pretend to eat
as they observe the seasons of our lives. - This is a great metaphor

Sometimes someone subdivides the sheep - I'm still trying to figure out who the shepherds are
farms into exurbs. The shepherds dislike
the cul-de-sacs. The residents hate the commute. 

Of course, they can all teleport;
it's by choice they don't.
They're always desperate to resemble
us, but never manage to. 

Up there, the puddles are really windows
angels look down through. Like fishermen
on ice, they get down on hands and knees
and try to track what shapes are swimming
through the dimness
underneath their feet. - Themselves, of course. Who else do you see in a puddle? I assume.

[busker]

In the suburbs where the angels build
their duplex homes, public transport
is inadequate. The seraphim own SUVs
and shop at supermarkets. Their wings
brush frozen TV dinners—something
for the cherubim to pretend to eat
as they observe the seasons of our lives.

Sometimes someone subdivides the sheep
farms into exurbs. The shepherds dislike
the cul-de-sacs. The residents hate the commute. 

Of course, they can all teleport;
it's by choice they don't.
They're always desperate to resemble
us, but never manage to. 

Up there, the puddles are really windows
angels look down through. Like fishermen
on ice, they get down on hands and knees
and try to track what shapes are swimming
through the dimness
underneath their feet.

There's much to like in this poem. One of the best I've read in recent months.
Just putting a pin in it. Will come back to explain what it was that I liked, at a later point.