Heaven

Heaven

And our time just races on
dizzy like a drunken night
while the elegant seasons come and go
speaking softly of Michelangelo.
All the while, through it all like prose,
we'll maintain some sort of structure, composure,
we'll be weather'd but still a bit alive,
we'll try to dance away the days
that are dusty essays
'cause we're like that,
reckless dreamers in it together,
imagining a world that doesn't spin,
that doesn't sit angled on its axis,
of a world that just sort of hangs about
straight and quiet
like a silver ornament on a Christmas tree.

Then it would all make sense,
our numbered days timelessly decorative
like Tennyson or Poe.

Poem and Photo: James Gagnon