Approaching Your Two Thousand Three Hundred and Thirty-third Night : IV Poem by Alan Gillis

Little head, tired arms, speedy mind,
let yourself flow with the thrum of the engine.
Driving through the warpled night we can find
our way home, and then worry about heaven.
If there is a heaven it is chained to the earth
like flight to the air, a mirror to light,
air to the ground, rigor mortis to birth.
And if you could look down from the height
of heaven you would see us as loose grains
of rice, or sand, scattered and small
crisscrossed scars on the face of the earth.
We've been sifted through an impassable wall
we will pass through twice. That is all.
You ask what we are for? I'd say imagine.