Knowing Shelves

　　I know not the day of my death

　　Crack open a book

　　and crack open creation

　　like a canary-gold egg,

　　yolk posed over the white

　　of outer space. The heavens

　　house a universe I can only

　　label a library, a vast mansion

　　that harbors the secrets

　　of everything. There`s an

　　entire wing dedicated to us,

　　each of us—we`ve all written

　　a book, if not with our own

　　hand, then with our own acts.

　　My name glowing across the cover.

　　Take a stop by the center andThe story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

　　save enough space inside your spirit

　　for a download of hallowed truth, all

　　the information packaged and sealed

　　like a birthday present, waiting

　　for you to rip through the paper.

　　All those unexplainables make sense now,

　　the puzzle was never missing those

　　pieces, God was never far as galaxies.

　　The universe is populated by more

　　than words—smooth cords

　　of equations tie down the existence

　　of all things, gossamer spider webs

　　that break the links between the small, weak

　　with those pretending to be strong,

　　celestial math printed into

　　the stars in bold, italic caps, impossible

　　to miss. God will tutor us, fill

　　in those gaps with the order

　　of the cosmos—astrology,

　　agriculture and architecture,

　　history and engineering, philosophy,

　　literature, and statistics. Lessons in

　　living. Lessons in loving.

　　Lessons in dying.

　　Life really is forever—

　　we don`t die