Knowing Shelves

I know not the day of my death

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Crack open a book

and crack open creation

like a canary-gold egg,

yolk posed over the white

of outer space. The heavens

house a universe I can only

label a library, a vast mansion

that harbors the secrets

of everything. There’s an

entire wing dedicated to us,

each of us—we’ve all written

a book, if not with our own

hand, then with our own acts.

My name glowing across the cover.

Take a stop by the center and

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

save enough space inside your spirit

for a download of hallowed truth, all

the information packaged and sealed

like a birthday present, waiting

for you to rip through the paper.

All those unexplainables make sense now,

the puzzle was never missing those

pieces, God was never far as galaxies.

The universe is populated by more

than words—smooth cords

of equations tie down the existence

of all things, gossamer spider webs

that break the links between the small, weak

with those pretending to be strong,

celestial math printed into

the stars in bold, italic caps, impossible

to miss. God will tutor us, fill

in those gaps with the order

of the cosmos—astrology,

agriculture and architecture,

history and engineering, philosophy,

literature, and statistics. Lessons in

living. Lessons in loving.

Lessons in dying.

Life really is forever—

we don’t die