Friday, March 29, 2019

WALKING ON THE ROOF OF HELL

If the wretched old parishioner
perpetually glued
to the front pew of your childhood
church told the truth, then you're:

walking the dog, pushing
the stroller, jogging around now
and again after work, if you're
lucky—all on the vast rooftop

of the devil's terrible castle.
No wonder, then
you've so often
found yourself bemused

by the air's peculiar
coolness in the morning,
the fecund smell of earth
after rain, the sight of

fresh tulips each spring, each one
rooted to that heinous ceiling
and nodding as you pass
by again with your daughter

as if to say—we're all part 
of the same thing,
their doomed bulbs aspiring
as ever, toward heaven.

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