Do they travel to a dingy Parisian basement
in the sky, lit only by one naked
lightbulb, the wallpaper peeling
faster than their skin? Do they sometimes
draw the blinds, and look out
on a landscape of clouds, and wonder
if they could have built something
like that on earth? Do they stand up
and push boulders up hills,
only occasionally stopping
to let them fall back down,
the time in between exactly
synchronized to the breaths
from their smoky lungs, which will
never again wheeze? Maybe,
joining hands in a mildewed
shower stall, they lean in
to kiss the wall, hoping
it might disappear, if only
they could will it. Make it
into an obstacle, make
a meaning out of it. Perhaps
they think their continued
existences, give them
some kind of karmic obligation
to learn some way of faking
prayer, if only through
the stepwise motions
of their feet, up
and up, and up, until
there's nowhere left to go
but downwards.
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