Heaven
to Shea
The slaves,
their eternal bodies
the color of flamboyant burnish
take turns, take turns
laying down the bones to earth.
They will,
or won’t be never missed.
Some go blind by the hilly banks of varnish,
so wordlessly sweet do
the candors of their sinned faces
bloom lavishly with anguish
into plainness every evening
as the sun begins to vanish.
Even they have loved
impermanence.
Even they bear some resemblance
to us, spread finite & dirty
under the marbled orchard of forbidden
stars, holding their wings out at arms’ length
toward the sky,
shaking out dust from the dust.