What in the world is this
movement, am I king of the heavens
of pavement, rubble and lovers
torn from their mothers to seek another's breast
Help us O we Insufficient Fallen
to beat the life out of our beds
and awake in fullest canopy.
Tell me there is a corner in this room,
In which I can find some sense,
Feel my forehead,
Whisper into my mouth,
How different you are,
How we should go back into the trees,
There are jaguars down here,
That hunt, that kill,
In a corner in this room.
Pulled from his breast pocket the tired sheet,
That bore his achievement in this life:
He was richer than God.
He could buy Heaven if he wanted to.
Clumsily he reoriented the paper this way and that,
But he could not make heads or tales of it,
Save for a quickly fading memory of what it meant,
He laid it gently in a tide pool beside,
"Take care of that paper you organisms in there!
I hereby promote you to the top of the pile!"
He backed into the foam,
Spirals adapting and learning of his shins, then his knees,
"You are richer than God now!
You could buy Heaven if you wanted to!"
Write me a letter
detailing the indeterminacies of our progress,
the rhapsodical nature of our talking points,
how you never dreamed we'd leave that blessed sound.
And I will write you back,
With my bones and eyes and hands,
That dreams were meant to be kept separate,
But that we are guaranteed to return,
As gusts of wind, as ourselves.