Indigo Room

open your eyes.  the loved ones are here.
inside you, a wind is dying.  a four-leafed clover broken at the edge.  a pallid face resting on a pallid bed in an indigo room.  please hear yourself: God doesn’t forgive this.  He doesn’t want the sandals in your closet.  he doesn’t want anything but blood, so he can mold paradise from it.
inside you, a wind is dying.  and the  television flicks off; the office from which you watched angels fall, crumbles.  open your eyes, dear— look at these photos! here, you held a soda can, smiling deeply into the unanswered prayer of the camera.  here, you’re reading a book about dinosaurs. it crushed you when you couldn’t become one.  why aren’t your eyes open? everyone’s here to weave your bones together.   

even the girl who never loved you back— and watched you walk the lonely path
a star is.  even the boulevard’s trees,
and the spaces between their green teeth.
all of it a broken four-leafed clover— all of it
so absent in this indigo room.  listen: you never felt light until you knew the darkness of it.  you never were fair to her, or anyone really.  it’s not fair.  it’s not meant to end without blood.  please, open your eyes,  
love!

this time you’ll have wings pinned to your shoulders.  this time hell isn’t real.  this time heaven’s not poured in gold.  this time your words will sound like Venus.  there’ll be no illusions here. there’ll be nothing but innocent trees.   

remember you said the distance between each afterlife is human touch? and if you closed your eyes, you would see angels?
are you glowing where you’re going?
is the world a movie there? is there any escape from the wars within us? if you
knew, would you tell us the location of the
palace they make hearts in?