I opened the gate to some sort of heaven
and all around were trees packed in green,
rain hanging like tinsel from the bloated air
and jungles that dared the weak to live,
then opened some hearts and heard strange
voices muttering something about
thirst and sand
that drinks the sky,
wave after wave of the dead's
where the angels don't shine
like those nights that wash the day.
Cloaked like a Bedouin woman
was this atlas of finely-ground
dreams that looked like sand and
rasping spirits that sang
the siren's lullaby
behind that fertile veil.
No faraway place is hell
but anywhere we stay too long,
any banquet without end is famine;
the feast of fire, Midas' inedible gold.
So the voices rise to any god who
and the answer they receive
is more rain with more thirst,
more waves of chatter upon
the endless sands.