Swaddled in stars and clouds, the gate of heaven
only opens for the willing. Despite the angel
with his flaming sword, her glass bars swing wide in the simple
wind of your breath. He’s pissed about that, you know.
The baroque of your voice swells the closured garden
until the ladder is empty and even Jacob wakes from beneath
its lean. Thrones are lonely places. Don’t tell anyone
I had to look up effigy.
Image taken with iphone
Words written on the floor
Time Taken 11 minutes
Brain on objects, boxes, missions impossible
Ears on the sounds of St. Vincent