In fact, an unsettled heaven is what
I had prepared for. In all directions
the songs of specters, a harp floating midair.
There is one difference between a hymn
and a song and it’s in its power to parch
its listener. I sometimes wonder if angels too
need water for how long they’re asked to hold
their notes. I imagine them singing, shining,
rows of plastic bottles lined at their sandaled feet.
Heaven is the planet we destroy after this one.
In the beginning, they too called this place magic.