Disagreement Among Experts

The sky has a papier-mâché heart.
Clouds are its stained eyes. That we’re all being observed
By someone benevolent is a version of
Happiness. I can predict the future—
The dead will grip our souls
And pull us down into the earth with them.
We live among each other, understudies
For someone we’ll never meet.
We were expertly designed
For the mechanical requirements of sex,
Predisposed to feign appreciation for subtitled movies.
It’s frightening to finally understand
That paperwork can solve any problem.
Though the solution is seldom what we want.
Have you discovered how sweet the smoke stains smell
At the crossroads once everything stops?
If this makes you sob, think of your tears
As skiers on the misery of your face.
If you were never born, imagine
The things your body could have held.