THE MIND AFTER EVERYTHING HAS HAPPENED

Perpetual peace. Perpetual light.

From a distance it all seems graffiti.

Gold on gold. Iridescent, torqued phosphors.

But still graffiti. Someone’s smear on space.

A name. A neighborhood. X. X was Here.

X in the House. A two-handed engine

Of aerosols hissing Thou Shalt Not Pass

On fiery ground. A shot-down Aurora

Borealis. That raised areola

At the tip of the tongue of I or Thou.

Benedict Robinson, text me, if you know:

If Hell is a crater to a crater

To a crater to a crater, what then

Is Heaven, aside from its opposite,

Which was glorious, known, and obvious?