Last in heaven

It has not been more than four months,and vital signs of life
can often be found affixed to the refrigerator door.
There will soon to be the delineation of spaces to
walk in-settings of a law-a new kind of law.
The decibel levels are set according to mutual
disagreements,a routine for the wind to follow-almost
as strictly as mine.The windows chosen out of invalid
discourse may eventually misshape our lives,but chances
of that happening are as vague as my concern for them
in the first place.There is no better way to stay in line,
than drawing it yourself-everything but that.The writing,in
an acute sense,is really never on the wall-rather a deafening
silence of incredulity,of refusal to doubt.The sun alone
tips the edges of this flower brown.Within,it is all red and bare.
There isn't another place I would rather be at, for
a million years,as replacement value becomes
a metrical injustice.In between addresses of the mind
and heart alike,postal and poetic threads intertwine.
Her lips pour,triumphant words like "forever",
when in her mind she travels as far as "now".