Monday, October 17, 2011

The Outer Limits of Our Longing for Heaven

We begin with a dark hour in which violins are heard mapping the confines of A minor, and a dog rustling at the door, anxious now to walk. A lilt, a lift, and a recognition that prayer is required. Your third floor apartment in which I was subject to unexpected - and somewhat stressful - praise.

The basement where I slept, and where we loved the way you do when you are young and poor and yes, in love. A breeze that one believed was named after a minor Greek god. For some reason, this poem - for it is a poem, you know - wants a black functioning cannon in it.

We are unaware of all our witnesses. How many churches did we enter, Sunday after Sunday, with the taste of each other on our tongues, testing the outer limits our longing for Heaven? Why do most singers write about getting their heart broken and not breaking someone else's?

It is hard to own a past in which we are the aggressor. Nickels and dimes will get you a hot cup of tea, that brief but welcome respite. Fall rain, perceived blessings.

In the twenty sentences, I am closer to you, and closer to God. How I wish you would write, fold your old love for me into an envelope, mail it to the dusty post office where I live with ghosts and pensioners and rats! Greetings were exchanged in the blue haze of pipe smoke, and a sense of promise - or adventure at least - was pervasive.

You wouldn't know me in a crowd yet in Truth we are always familiar. Without limits we might actually remember we aren't these bodies tied down with stories. She pulled her knees to her chin, gazed out the window where I was pacing in the rain with my grandfather's old umbrella held at a compromising angle.

This is it, the requisite surrender. For the time being, brothers and sisters, I am prone to grace and letters.

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