“WHAT BECOMES OF THE BROKENHEARTED…”

Up where the narrow bodies lie, suffused in sundown,

The children of God are stretched out

                                                                  under the mountain,

Halfway up which the holy city stands, lights darkened.

Above the city, the nimbus of nowhere nods and retracts.

How is it that everyone seems to want

                                                                   either one or the other?

Down here birds leap like little chipmunks out of the long grasses.

Wind piddles about, and “God knows” is the difficult answer.

The children of Heaven, snug in their tiny pockets,

Asleep, cold,

Under the Purgatorial hill.

Soon they’ll awake, and find their allotted track

                                                                     up to the upside down.

Or not. The gravetree estuaries against the winds of Paradise.

Unutterable names are unpinned from its branches.

                                                                                           A couple

Float down to this pocket, and others float down to that pocket.

Star shadow settles upon them,

                                                        the starshine so far away.