Heaven

Perhaps there are plenty of heavens, Tucked within or displayed on the sleeve; Some a twinge, others a dousing; Some are a fish's cool, crisp escape; Others a sluggish ape's dangle; Some involve watching the sun slip Its flaming head in the water, Or breezes charging through A throat to coax out stale breath; Others are witnessing a smattering Of city lights rip open dark lands, Or the chortle of a gleaming machine.

The grin of the freshly filled; A house inlaid with prosperity; Tousled bed covers grazing the early sun; These are heavens.

But mine is a dream: The hope of ambling across the blue, A place to awe properly, A place to passion unhampered, Because if I am honest to my core, Despite these profoundest heavens, They all disappoint.

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