Sara Henning

S a r a  H e n n i n g

Crossing

Since Heaven is habitual,

I hope I am addicted:

its patches of tundra

are botched enough

to end me.

I dream of its shards,

cortex split

between filthy lyric

and bones of angels,

light and dark

flirting as though

neither colored

the weather faithless,

could drop my soul

to the ground.