green space
where the freshest light
goes streaking
through the morning-
spangled branches
of the still-trembling trees,
past shabby fields
of clover and weeds
where the lawnmowers
will not go, just to land
with a gleam
on the distant heaps
of pink blushing brick
where even my
vaguest interlocutors sleep—
that is the place
where, one day, I
may come
to believe,
without artifice,
in life
after death—that is,
in the life
of this ardent reckless
world to come
long after mine
is done.
