Heaven

Despite appearances 

Heaven may not be 

the always present 

consciousness

that watches over us

during 

beach hours

gray rain city days

or any number of man follies

like battlefields

the electoral college

and never being able to find a

parking space at Cotsco on weekends.

For me

Heaven is

our private

inner movie studio

where all that is lost

or eternally feared

is stored in film cans

on strips of memory celluloid

that we can call up

whenever the wars of love 

become too much to bear.

Silent night pictures

flutter by 

on the silver screens of 

daydreams and nightmares,

that feature mostly tales of loss

and temptation

featuring a cast of 

a thousand ghosts

who haunt the shadow valley of our hearts

until the wee small hours 

when the lights come back on

and the exit signs are clearly lit.

In that still-life morning moment of

want and limbo

all that remains 

is a carousel of 

dissolving images 

on shredded sprockets 

which we will try to restore

in the sanctity of shower stalls,

while we listen for the yawn of a coffee maker,

or when we stare into the faces

of all the other filmgoers

swaddled in silence

aboard a commuter train 

which rocks us

back

and forth

like a cradle

bound for glory

until we come back home

and once again

fade to black.