The Life That's Inside Poem by gregory collins

Buried in the mother's lap of a book,
like a violet i once got from an island on the Seine.

I was once in heaven, keeping track
of moons who cannot speak of their travels.

Like faith drank down whenever you get your way.
To ask someone if that smooth mattress i am dying on,

is really clouds we shall drink from;
To be young from hand to hand,

and know about heaven from listening to roots
and not the lifetime of our tired eyes.

Which can only look and watch
with suspicion a single kind word.