9
Break up each unit of time, here on earth,
into infinitesimally small pieces,
and those pieces, then, amount to our worth
in heaven—the sum of all that He says,
between our ears—for an eternal time.
His infinity is our infinity, no
matter the component parts—they chime
the same notes, loving us as we go
from one world to the next. I give my love
every chance, then, to choose another,
since, in this life, I’m nothing but His glove,
catching that which slips between our finger,
when the chaff is separated from the grain.
In so doing, however, I, in a way,
outdo her chances—then I’m her main
source, and, as such, she does what i say,
when, after all, I tell her to choose me,
seeing as, given my web, I’m all that’s left,
and, besides, my love, for her, is for free—
no strings attached, nothing that’s bereft,
either, of His commitment to the future,
a happy home, focused on the present.
There is nothing so heavenly or pure
as her innocence, her love, and what it meant
to me, and still means, as I made, and make,
my way, from birth and rebirth, to His call,
the foundation that, for good, is at stake,
when i choose to embrace her, all in all.
So I stand my ground, thinking of her in
the morning, as I awake, and ponder
the questions that will define my din—
the drumming of time, as it was and were,
from this life, now, to the next life, also now,
being lived as we speak. Then, at night,
my mood is her mood, the mood we allow,
bringing His work to a close, choosing light,
as it animates our brains, body to body,
dream to dream. If i cry out, in my sleep,
haven of and for worldly things, it’s me,
and my company, that I choose to keep,
a function of heaven—bosom of my cry,
the end all be all from which I awake.
The beauty, now, that lives in my mind’s eye,
is the ugliness, there, that I forsake.