heaven in the basement

we found serafin stalking the ceiling
like moths. tried to captures them
with dental floss & prayer books,
swatting at them all through the night.
their hum like whirling machines.
you can want an afterlife so bad
it starts to arrive. picture frames
emptied of all their faces.
i didn't want to go down there
where the portal was becoming
a television. static in the ait.
finger-tip length world.
i don't believe in god. this is a vacant
fissure. to step through a
window made of fingers. i want 
the other side to have tapestries
of impossible forests & a lake
as deep as i need it to be.
telling the not-god, here i am 
in all my sleep. the house condensed.
palmful of salt. i throw everything i can
over my shoulder for luck.
bicycles & forks & flowers. 
the basement is not something
that can go away. it's always there.
louder on some days compared to others.
i take a knife some nights 
& crawl on hands & knees as if
a violence could extract a heaven.
don't we all want to be told
we will arrive somewhere grand 
& bold & sugared. i am careful
of all doors & all thresholds.
a doorknob white hot. 
i have watched centipedes 
scramble down there 
& never return. i have even less legs
than them. the serafin laugh
like crinkled silver. 
i tell them i can't hear them
& they say, they can't see me.
not yet.

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