I have come to think
there is no justice--
at least not the sort we imagine.
There are seven billion roads to heaven
and only seven paths to hell.
But we crave judgment
like we grasp for the jagged edges
of retreating nightmares.
I think what we really fear
is the brutal efficiency of a perfect creation:
glimpsing our own recyclable destinies,
watching our most secret wishes
catch flame in other hearts
only to burn, burn out,
and reignite elsewhere.
I don’t know if a Christian is allowed to believe
that there is no life after life,
but I do.
Perhaps I am reconciled in disavowing death.
I have seen a place where the outgoing tide
leaves behind a perfectly round reflecting pool in the sand.
In a certain Blakeian state of mind,
I can imagine that circle contains the whole of creation,
that it sings with the truth of every element
and reflects the myriad beauty of sky and sea.
But no matter what I divine from it,
the ocean is still the glorious, unfathomable ocean,
and I am here,
contemplating a puddle.