(Originally published in Star Dust in the Morning, edited by Anne Jacobs, The National Library of Poetry, 1998, pp 119.)

Death,

like a plague striking man at any given time.

We rise spiritually in hopes of moving on

to a better place,

a sinless savior’s paradise, a heaven built on faith.

Then there are who wonder if there’s even such a place.

So we read a book of prophets in hopes of learning more

about this sinless savior whom we all adore.

And as you lay there smiling, thinking sinful thoughts,

a book of you is compiling, with all your naughty plots.