I get the soul’s impression
that all prose burn in heaven.
Each homeward bound confession
chased tales back and forth.
Bipolar dreams depression
that yearn for common ground,
a fingers length extension
too tame to make a sound.
If all dogs go to heaven
who’s there left to be found?
A mother’s womb that’s kickin
an unborn Ezra Pound.
It’s with this last expression
your love comes to me now.
Released to death’s progression
a compass pointing north.