Heaven From Above

Impossible to distinguish sin
from reward for not sinning.
So many plump buttocks up in the air!
And not a harp in sight.

The clouds are green
& appear to be anchored.
Perhaps they are trees
or overflowing garbage skips.

Dogs must’ve been
the true chosen ones,
judging by their noise & numbers
& the scarcity of cats.

All the angels are fallen—
some just a little farther.
Their wings move in unison, shaken
by the same wind.

A saint’s bald pate glimmers
through the hole in his halo:
a newborn crowning, a boil,
a target for the sun.

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