Sunday Morning

You left. You went into “that dividing
And indifferent blue.” One woman said:
“A good time to start believing in heaven.”
Who here is master of his own belief?
I replied, dryly: “I believe my wife
Is in a can at her sister’s house.” Life
Is the random atom-dance, memory
The mere arrangement of molecules.
”It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
You died and I was born again
As a publican and a sinner. Today
In heaven, a retirement community,
God will speak in the media center;
After which, lunch, light music,
A holy raffle and some cloud croquet—
While down here, I have five dates
With women half your age. “Death
Is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment.” Still
The sky is black with early stars.
The moon is even leaving us alone.
The air is made of pine and sagebrush.
The coyotes are having another party.
If there was an app to talk to you
I would be on it every second
Of every minute of every day.
“Over the seas, to silent Palestine.”