Eustace Tilley In Heaven I Poem by Morgan Michaels

Insincere, they said,
Your heart forever vanishing, going out of sight
returning each night to its violable branch,
in its enchanted wood. Like a firefly it beckons. Ha!
I set my course. It disappears. Appears again,
somewhere in the well, in a new form.
Then again, no longer the fire. Quark
dark and cold the altarstone, reminding me that I, too,
have lingered long on twilight benches in parks
as the moon linked itself to night,
tapping my spats lightly on stone to indicate-what?
Interest? Impatience? Let's have a drink, go to bed,
and then, perhaps, a good dinner.

In time I died and went to heaven-surprise!
even a caricature must, you know, go in riffs,
in discreet whiffs, up the nostrils of the gods.
There, toeing the mark, was Nature's advocate.
Here it's harder to be critical.
The butterflies are of a golden hue. Remember butterflies?
Here we reflect long on past glissandi
while the stars come on
till the fire sinks in every human hearth.