Paradise on Black Ice
Heaven hunts round for those that find itself below, and then it snatches.
I wind the sheet of elegy while he's still alive, I can't help it, I follow his breath while he sleeps, greet each coming and going, with an Ave. (Because of how the quick become the dead.) But right now he's showering with a gospel choir, radio half on and half off that station. And today's heaven is half hell, half whole, half hurt, hunting every naked thing with the same harsh delight.
From Nocturnes of the Brothel of Ruin by Patrick Donnelly. Copyright © 2012 by Patrick Donnelly. Reprinted with permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.