There should be a colony of heaven
cordoned from the world, preassigned
to those whose houses burn, the newly blind,
to victors desolated by a war:
celestial prairie; rolling hills of dough
waiting for a leaven, recompense
derived from land of shrubbery and coal,
a paradise apportioned in advance.
The body is a land grant to the soul
and every word is fossilized from prayers
of clay; the ruins need a place to go
while everyone is busy with repairs.