Hot Tub Heaven

Is floating,
and wondering 
who you are,
in the dark, 
when it’s too late to care,
splay-legged for a star,
free from anywhere
on turning earth, 
around a burning sun,
pinwheeling in a mirth 
of Milky Way. 

Hello, I dare to say,
through the bottom of my glass.
And wait. 

For the great black maw 
to agitate. 

To speak 
for all these pains,  
perhaps gesticulate.  

Anything.

But please, 
do something new.

No more helicopter leaves, 
winking wanly  
in the last light.

Or walnut brains. 
Or other cheap signs,

that God 
has a tricky I.Q.