Heaven's Dust

You slept through the meteor shower again—

never a time you didn’t and only half

the desire lodged in the echo of memory,

not enough to make it work. Why wake

to see burning bits of stellar space

declaring the heavens are filled with dust—

the clumsy untidiness of housekeeping

gone awry like the house you live in?

If heaven is your home, it shouldn’t mirror

where you live with the litany of chores

that sing demands for attention—cracked

plaster, chipped paint, sticking doors.

Jesus promises rest, so let the angels

with feather wings chase the dust bunnies

until they fall from the floor of heaven

to burn through their passage by Perseus.