Set the Night Singing #2.23
Updated: Oct 14
Let it be no angel who
discovers me upon the mold,
my spirit slain
by body cold.
But let it be the lichen, blue;
the tiny spore who gnaws on bone.
Let him come, the blind worm, wan,
who decorates with eyes, with skins,
the walls of his adobe home.
A skyborne palace, angels say,
awaits the ship of souls who tried
to walk the narrow Earthly way
or, for fair visions, nobly died;
or followed in their wake to live
with those who walk on holy feet
or signed and bought the narrative
that heaven waits, Earth's saints, to greet.
Give me, on waking into death,
the sight of heights no saint has seen,
a warm hand resting on my chest –
the new earth what the loving dreamed.