Heaven is a that listlessness
a restlessness
creaking misspent christmases
sneaking waxy floorboards
a minute to midnight
the same old song rolled over your tongue
effervescent, but colorless
inoffensive sinlessness

Heaven is next year's vacation
taking time to pay off credit card debt
dusting off those silver medals and
deciding that contentment is fine
and a sterile marriage is better than being alone
(even though you sleep in separate rooms -- 
we call it sterile because nothing is given the warmth to grow)

Heaven will convert you
in the middle of a no man's land
a crucifix forced and folded into psalms
burning righteous against your palms
buried in your hand, folded shut
too weak to resist.
too tired to care
soaking in like the rain and cold against your cheek.

Heaven is a fear and coercion
flighting us against nothingness:
a fear that our lives might not have been enough
and with no irony
and with no irony
and with no irony
we cut them down into even, 
neater, plainer piles
scyth'd, row by row, prepared in nameless bundles
awaiting collection.
and our many loves, spun into ink
pressed into pages
no longer measured in people, and places
but instead, double ruled miles
citations on a map
moral compass pointing down into the dirt.

Heaven is boring
but it's always open
the sign is always lit
someone is always in
and it's warm
but it never feels like home.