Cold Green

My eyes frost over when I think of how
heaven could be someone else's dump
or a backstage vantage of the future.
I am not saying that a god is sad
or that I want to wear my hair longer,
I just see this landscape everywhere.
When knowing is on the inside looking out,
death seems a place that has no corners
and forms an outline that resembles life's,
but I have no nostalgia for old age because
my nostalgia for love is a gun beneath
my pillow, gold and green. I have found
these things in song: a bird too tired to fly,
secrets of pronunciation, a defeated harvest,
an old refrigerator full of architectural plans.
It is time to listen to predecessors, nothing
in their coffins but evidence of my envy.
Their minds go first and mine follows
closely. It's like repairing a foreign car.