Implied Spaces (43 page)

So the universe
—

Sprawling, brutal, arbitrary, filled with

Forces striving against one another,

Like a darkened room where wrestlers battle

Unseen, blind, the point of their contention

Lost in the violence of their striving.

Shiva sits at the heart of every star

Making and unmaking, warming worlds to

Life and later burning them to atoms.

Dancing, graceful, smiling, unrelenting

Filling eons with his knowing laughter.

Should we wonder that the cities now are

Planned? Their arms of gold and green embrace the

Land, while overhead the sun spawns beams of

Daintily calculated radiance.

Splendid people walk here, their genes themselves

Manufactured, of fine computation.

Could the gates of Heaven hide the final

Unplanned city? Maybe God’s radiant face

Blinds us to his badly planned urban stews—

Chaos lurches in the golden gutter,

Hand clutched around a bottle of cheap wine.

Say that Heaven needs a restoration—

Would it not be in the interest of all?

We are wise now, haven’t had a war in—

(Well now, truth to tell—
That
was just a lone

Maniac, far too many hours in space.)

Finished now, we don’t care to bring it up.

Surely Heaven can use a good tidy,

Kind attention, some rational guidance.

Let us build our tunnel to great Heaven!

Back to where it all began, our sorry

Cosmos, tragic womb to tragic eons.

Won’t the Father be surprised to see our

Sauntering trolls upon his spruced-up streets, while

Seraphs take part in our fantasy games,

Bending divine energy to quibbling

Over title to magical items.

All we are is their fault, and it’s only

Justice that they put up with us a while.

Let them see us as we are, their children,

Erring, errant, avaricious…
arrived.

Heaven’s being has its implications,

Us among them. All that we are, or were,

Or may cause to exist. We are implied:

Glories and afflictions, death and furies,

Accident, fluke and mere fortuity.

We’ll turn up unannounced, and won’t they be

Startled! Merest accidents, all grown up!

Heaven we shall renovate, with our

Usual abandon. Wisdom shall be

Handed out, natives’ suggestions slighted.

Who are they, but those unwise enough to

Build the likes of
us?

They need not fear us.

Lurking in our precise architecture

Hide unintended places, soon to grow

Ominous with consequence, filling with

Burgeoning life, replete with fine monsters—

Capering and roaring, running in gangs,

Bounding in a colorful crowd, shining…

Our scary descendants on a rampage.

In our children lie the angels’ comfort,

Reassurance in mere humanity.

Godhood escapes our fine, frantic efforts.

Neither we nor they are omnipotent.

Even Heaven generates its squinches.

 
THE END