a privilege it would be
to be a little less fire.
less microcosm of chaos. less coming apart at the seams.
less doubled-over Holy Lance, millennia still bleeding.
less scarlet fever soul. less gunfire.
less gaping mouth, letter O, still sounding.
to be, instead,
more pastoral meadow. more cherubs on cathedral ceilings.
more first real love, years still sweet, still sore.
more sleeping baby. more sky before snow.
more mother’s touch. more Sunday morning, still quiet.
the definition of Paradise is this
and it is lost to me.
I fear I have fallen from the grace of myself.