The clocks tick pink, then turn to horses. Please,
put my heart in the tunnel of your telescope while there’s time.
Look, its muscular chambers hold the four degrees of glory.
Have always held the four degrees of glory. Glory of
sing out, just as three-wattled bellbird. Glory of sometimes
I leave my knots exposed. Glory of skylight.
Glory of coiffed ghost. When you are dead, these
shall be the rooms of your salvation. You may enter
one kingdom or all the kingdoms. No one will ask
you to shake hands. The usher will say, Now, here,
enter the heart of the matter at last. The cuffs
of your shoulders will turn soft, astonished as petals.
The kingdoms have no exiles.
They have, instead, coral noises that pique your curiosity.
You’ll want to know what syrinx strums such red songs.
Your joints will spin silk. You’ll know why the ghosts
are so lovely. You’ll know why my heart trills so loud.
Exaltation is not what you supposed. Daughters dwell
not in outer darkness. They are too busy with the atria
of glory, carving the valve that breathes light.