Aborning

Good borning!  How did you sleep in heaven?

Any dreams of note?  Any storms?

I myself am aborned from slumber 

just this very day—remarkable

as it may seem, I am covered in skin

and hair and molecules and 

the sound of chimes in the wind

I was aborned in the bed that I died in

just last night, cares unravelled 

sheets and blankets and ghosts at play

on this particular bed's mantle, on its tectonic self

I sometimes sleep in heaven because it is weightless

no depth, really, just vague imaginings

of distant mountains, of children
of hawks and juncos and wheeling planes

and strangers looking for lost cousins, etc.

I think I heard a dog, sweetly sniffing the air

but still, a sense of dread abides in the light

the speed of it all, its blinding nature

some say it is pure, whatever that may mean

it is relentless, it is all pervading

the point of perfection is to agitate the senses

when i awaken I fall from heaven

the broken son, the one to blame

still, I fall and land aborning

in the atmosphere of my beloved earth

in the faint perfection that rises in the east