We’re thinking of ripping
out the spireas that prowl
the corners of the house

like guard dogs on patrol,
their green-eyed gazes
morphing into fiery red

when autumn knocks
on August’s back door.
It seems a proper way

to control the sprawl,
to contain the blaze
of accusation in each

paired leaf. Is not remorse
a fitting reason to empty
the space, a sly way to deny

the image of a god peeking
with raccoon eyes from the
branched veins of the past?