ON THE AFTERLIFE
Heaven is personal, a score to be settled.
You would recline on the divine and fluffy bed
if only to relish the bitter post-nasal
drip that burns down your throat.
Say it. Everything you spat out in the one life,
say again here. Cloud borne.
Heaven is a perfect parallel, no, a continuity
with all the antique rage, and if only
more eloquent. But no. You wake mute
and therefore perfected. God is your mattress.
You wake without a word more of it, your hair
tangled, a brittle stain burned through the counterpane
by the acrid stuff that had dripped from
your throat. And your eyes
still unfocussed with sleep.
TYPO
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