Accept Heaven doesn’t exist:
the great fist-shaped hinges supporting its gates;
Peter’s wings like huge shoulders
hunched in doubt; even God,
whose face is a nest of clouds; all
just a figment. Go
outside. Hear
the traffic’s grunt
of forced patience? See the pigeons
perched atop phone poles
as if expecting a call? Now,
go back inside. Open
a bottle of beer and let it sweat
until you do, too. Put it back
in the refrigerator. In the living
room, sit in the chair
next to your dead mother’s picture.
Isn’t it amazing
she won’t speak to you?
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
