A copy machine that emits Heaven’s
Golden radiation from a brain
Of dying elevators
With combat booted, screaming punk rockers
In New York with spiral staircases for spines.
What’s copied? A genderless Light with no original,
Rooted in the view of galleried sunrises,
Heaven, where you can sleep on a silver cloud
When you’re tired of copying, as poems,
The Sun in your sky womb. So leave your space
In the poem on my desk and have a silvery sleep.
Dream of floating down the Mississippi to New Orleans.
When the fog clears and the river fades from your view,
You can stay downstream,
Where the calm, shallow water
Sparkles like diamonds, absorbing the light of the sunset
