Heaven of Cracks

Where nothing happens to anyone

is a heaven of

cracks to fall between

or rise up to

if you're in

bed staring at the ceiling

between fits of sleep

that grind

like gears of engines

motor-vating through sand

and replays of the last

word you didn't

get

with a clerk

or someone else

who looked at you funny as the elevator shut,

or the car door shut

or the

door to the men's room shut,

It doesn't matter, it's always a door that closes in your face

before

you're speaking.

A heaven of cracks that might a passage
 between craggy mountain ranges

to the Eden

where all the totems work,

like jars of water

on front lawns,

scarecrows in

fields of dead corn,

candles to light in church for a coin,

guns with no bullet chambers,

cops

and gangbangers doing a crossword,

pillows that don't

smell

like girl friends who told me to leave the apartment that had their name on the lease,

another door closing,

can't escape that,

the phone ringing,

late for work again,

can't escape that either.