Heaven Works Backwards

Though this moment is altogether less than perfect-
though this time is broken,
we have determined to make the better of it
but we have not altogether discarded

our intermittent yearning
for the yet-to-come
light which promises to raze
the gauzy veil perpetual-
for the rush and clarity
of an ice cold wave of future bliss
to bear down on our blurry senses.

All yearnings and all waitings
are one motion
in one direction-
all pining and all wantings
are one future gravity.

the small yearnings
the small waits:
this present past will be illuminated
by an embrace long anticipated

& the long-con, the long wait
(the only one we know)

the droll, dull, plodding
of this series
of pasts and repasts
will color backwards
each bleak day

the warmth of true red
the sweet notes of genuine violet
the glow of undimmed gold
and a blue, a whole blue

a blue beyond what my weak eyes
are for now privileged to behold-

the blue of the peace
of never again seeing a blue
that only gives our wish for blue
a whet.


Kansas Is Full of Good Men



There are things not even
a poem of infinite
craft can carve into a cup small enough
that it might fit into hands,
our only-a-few-days hands,
and lift to the mouth, the lips
thirsty for days yet come when, and only when,
only after all days are said and done.

Sure as the sun on the days when we are thirsty
for the quiet assurance of rain on the roof-
sure as the sun reminds us of our duty
to welcome the new seasons and wait for the old,
failure litters the path to Pisgah
and fingers close over my face so that-
how do I say that I can’t bare to see
the smallness of the portion of the vision I’ll behold
all through the wait for all days to be
said, sung, and told.

You know, the faux folks in costume, in character,
watching makers dictate
strange worlds of the same old possibilities
embraced by upside down limits
on how many moves you can make per game-

the petit voices of the poets buried
in ground and above ground buried in novels
the joy of scholars living in the words of ancient worlds-

How do I show that not all recluses and reality deniers
are rejecting “the real.”
Perhaps they/me are instead aching for the ideal,
drowning in the blue longing for a place
where evil beheaded doesn’t grow two,
where love has happy endings not painful
fading out of life and passion lost
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