It was my mistake
To think no heaven could be shabby--
That the rusted red star
Piercing the fence, like a tropical leaf
Sword of heaven, sword of earth
Could never have fallen
Cast by a breeze clogged with an accident of angels.
I didn't look for the shade
Or the bench under the pomegranate bushes
Where Eden lurked.
You have to work for it
You have to look for it
It's hot as blazes--even early--here.
Red wasps gobble the wooden fence like slow flames
Pitchfork rears dragging the morning,
Buzzing like a snag in the film.
When it catches, where it burns
These breezes could be full of angels.
At least, if the neighbor's dogs
In full morning frenzy are greeting angels
Then I'll drop no sour curses
Into the day-melt pool at their feet.
Bless this silence, bless this shirk
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