You admitted
to me—heaven might not
be real
but suggested it wasn't quite
an illusion either.
You could agree
it was
tricky and weird,
like sunset—really happening
on some factual level,
but not how we imagine.
Or, like a float
in some sunblinded
and long late-
afternoon parade—functionally empty
but resplendently
full of its own light—
and perfect-
ly engineered
to illuminate
its own context.
You tried to propose—that God too
was
at least, maybe
a constructive
pastime,
like baseball.
a life-preserving
metaphor,
like traffic signals.
A serviceable
riddle,
like hiccups.
A convenient
answer,
like yes-sir.
You asked—couldn't I at least
respect
some clever marketing?
I thought
and said—yes,
I had a lot
of respect
for just that
sort of capacity;
so much,
in fact,
that there wasn't
a ton of room left—
for any
kind of hierarchy.