heaven has got white tiles
in enclaves
wrapped in hills like home carpets banking up to
empty space
orbs and spheres and swimming pools
everyone is on a hammock or
doing aerobics or
completely still
sapping up pure unradiated
waveless rays
an idea of light as
exactly what it looks like and
nothing more complex
heaven is that foetal
no one questions
who hangs the hammocks
or what phantom casts these
black spines of shadow suggesting trees
where soil isn’t
and heaven isn’t
grouted
it’s got white tiles held together
by the force of everyone
just wanting to be there
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Jack Haworth and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.