heaven

and here i thought we were all going to die someday;

incorrect;

our corpses (sacks of what used to be our livelihood, exhales of what used to be our lives) will 

sleep for the final time in a graveyard, our pillow stone and our bed soil

perfumed with the memories of lilacs

and grandfather's mothballs still clinging to our breath,

and the mushrooms will kiss our lay-as-though-she-smiled

lips for the final time in a graveyard

but forever is a long time and endings even longer,

so life in the form of pollen stuck fast to the honeybee's breast

(child as to mother) will fall

                                                                explode

into our empty lungs blooming faster faster faster

gone:                 peonies roses magnolias sing me a lullaby

about these thorns, golden-crown autumnal thorns that

will rip a hole in the edge of the universe where,

hand-in-hand like nevermore, our souls will slip through,

forevermore;

incorrect;

we are all going to die someday.