In Heaven Poem by Evan Fowler

Your room will be warm, that tiny attic room
with the John and Yoko War Is Over ad from the Tribune,
blue plastic typewriter, touristy Greek fertility charm of straw,
so warm my clothes melt
at the door. Help me thaw,

I promise this time to remove my skin right off
instead of being so frightened I forget my name,
think it's yours, that they're the same.
Other rooms in the Kaiserhof
need skin —plenty— but in Heaven, where death‘s a given,

I'll set by all I hide behind: the headful of space,
my gallop into The Valley, my Reason Why,
drop on the floor every hideyhole of verse,
and look at you long then, square in the face.
We have only to die; things have been worse.