On this earth

Heaven is a loaded gun. We drop to our knees
in the sorrel and nettle, and wait for the headlights of a god
who is actually just weather. The stands of pine,
grasses gold and stratospheric. You hold the drywall
to catch a heartbeat, hear the groundwaters freeze and thaw.
Listen, you say, and I can smell your blue ice breath.
The streets we used to walk evaporated with the red slosh
of sun-glare. The cars and pylons greened and sank,
as things of progress might. You say this is the beginning, now,
and we walk rock and shadow and hope to witness
something bigger than Time. Listen, and we listen
to cumulonimbus in Doric columns, the thunder clap.
And we are weeds in Eden. Blasphemous and perennial.
Listen, and we do.