A Heaven of Others

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Indeed the walls of Heaven, which are walls, quite physically, actually, appreciably, walls, move with the people, up and rearrange themselves, reposition, set incursions, Interfada hazarded against and within the Infidelis as We the people as the Americans say set themselves toward realization, toward truest experience of Heaven, and so wall in and wall out that that is made false, rendered untrue, anew each edging of the golden plate — or dish — serving up no sustenance at all. Insubstantial. In fact under this quite contested, controversial, interpretation, the vast golden plate is not necessarily a dish of gold or a plate (which would explain say some newly arrived proponents of this interpretation why it serves up strictly nothing, or nothingness), rather it is an always moving, always wandering, always movable, always wanderable, hole in the wall that is the sky, a necessary hole allowing no escape into the light and warmth that both says and means death from this Heaven this hole in the wall of vaulted sky guards more securely than any quote truer unquote wall in its stead, any repair, any vaulting sky in its place, could ever hope to.

Because Allah says through me Who can sense walls in such darkness? That such a hole is necessary, a prerequisite, to our knowledge of the wall and as importantly of what it walls in and out. Up and down. I think of David sleeping, a wall suspended horizontally just a breath, newborn, above his sleeping form. And nearer, so near that when he awakes, when he opens his eyes, their lids become stuck in a crack, become wedged, in a crack badly mortared, mortally, between two immense, possibly loosening, stones. The wall halves his Hollywood room. No one lives above. It would be disrespectful to place feet upon his wall — a floor without anything atop, not even a rug, a shelf without a book, merely a rung left ladderless — one night, I know, the earth will quake and he’ll breathe this wall in. Deepening sleep. Try to say a throat of breathed stone.