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Excelsior!

 

[a reassurance]

 

There were accidental cities once, that
  Grew on hills or twined about rivers,
  Swelling on paths of least resistance, spreading
  On the land like a stain, wine and its lees.
  Here a castle, there a market; there a
  Noble goddess of gold and ivory
  Crouched in her temple amid a foul slum.
  By the city wall, a tannery filled
  Mansions of the wealthy with its odor.
 
  So the universe
 

  Sprawling, brutal, arbitrary, filled with
  Forces striving against one another,
  Like a darkened room where wrestlers battle
  Unseen, blind, the point of their contention
  Lost in the violence of their striving.
 
  Shiva sits at the heart of every star
  Making and unmaking, warming worlds to
  Life and later burning them to atoms.
  Dancing, graceful, smiling, unrelenting
  Filling eons with his knowing laughter.

  Should we wonder that the cities now are
  Planned?  Their arms of gold and green embrace the
  Land, while overhead the sun spawns beams of
  Daintily calculated radiance.
  Splendid people walk here, their genes themselves
  Manufactured, of fine computation.
 

  Could the gates of Heaven hide the final
  Unplanned city?  Maybe God's radiant face
  Blinds us to his badly planned urban stews—
  Chaos lurches in the golden gutter,
  Hand clutched around a bottle of cheap wine.
  Say that Heaven needs a restoration—
  Would it not be in the interest of all?
 

  We are wise now, haven't had a war in—
  (Well now, truth to tell—That was just a lone
  Maniac, far too many hours in space.)
  Finished now, we don't care to bring it up.
  Surely Heaven can use a good tidy,
  Kind attention, some rational guidance.
 

  Let us build our tunnel to great Heaven!
  Back to where it all began, our sorry
  Cosmos, tragic womb to tragic eons.
  Won't the Father be surprised to see our
  Sauntering trolls upon his spruced-up streets, while
  Seraphs take part in our fantasy games,
  Bending divine energy to quibbling
  Over title to magical items.
 

  All we are is their fault, and it's only
  Justice that they put up with us a while.
  Let them see us as we are, their children,
  Erring, errant, avaricious . . . arrived.
 

  Heaven's being has its implications,
  Us among them.  All that we are, or were,
  Or may cause to exist.  We are implied:
  Glories and afflictions, death and furies,
  Accident, fluke and mere fortuity.
  We'll turn up unannounced, and won't they be
  Startled!  Merest accidents, all grown up!
 

  Heaven we shall renovate, with our
  Usual abandon.  Wisdom shall be
  Handed out, natives' suggestions slighted.
  Who are they, but those unwise enough to
  Build the likes of us?
 

                They need not fear us.
  Lurking in our precise architecture
  Hide unintended places, soon to grow
  Ominous with consequence, filling with
  Burgeoning life, replete with fine monsters—
  Capering and roaring, running in gangs,
  Bounding in a colorful crowd, shining . . .
  Our scary descendants on a rampage.
 

  In our children lie the angels' comfort,
  Reassurance in mere humanity.
  Godhood escapes our fine, frantic efforts.
  Neither we nor they are omnipotent.
 

  Even Heaven generates its squinches.

THE END

 

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Framed