Heaven must be
That old dream
Of my garden, but lasting
When I wake, the leaves
Seem to shred
In the wind like manuscripts
The pollinated
Jungleland
Becomes a sodden ivy
And bouldered ruins
Shrink to squares
In patios that are quite brown
If those sights lasted
If there was
No alarm to disturb
Me, I would see a
Cosmic light
Projected through the woodland
Like a patch of
Certainty
Through the coils of my own brain
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