I am reminded of a Christopher Reid poem that I will have to type in from memory:
H. Vernon
The butcher, tired of his bloody work
has made a metaphysical joke:
Five pigs’ heads on a marble counter
leer lopsidedly out of the window
and scare away the passers-by.
The vision is far too heavenly.
With ears like wings, these pallid putti
— hideous symbols of eternal beauty —
relax on parsley and smirk about
their newly disembodied state.
A van draws up outside. The butcher
opens his glass door like St. Peter
as angels heave in flanks of pork
that are strung with ribs like enormous harps.
-- Christopher Reid
