I cannot go on going forever.
Past a certain point, newness also
becomes a closed system, fleet atoms
and fleeting love in entropic spin. My heart
is friable, fickle, feral—is it mine? I am so
homesick of myself. Where can I go to stop going?
Heaven is perfect, white linen and glass pavement,
but I do not think I would know how to live
there. If I could only ascend that hill
to God’s house (and if it were really
a house), then I would know the way
to take off my shoes and set my luggage down
on the breezeway floor—so weary, so weary.
I would sit on the cold tile and slur together
the accents of every place I have been
so that ascent and assent would be
indistinguishable, both rising up
and saying yes.