V Is for Victory

The problem with heaven is there's never
Any better way to travel. In fact,
One must take account not only of vexed
Numbers of spots revealed by tumbling dice,

But also of the particular dice
On which those spots appear. "Particular,"
There's a word confuses the world, troubles
The otherwise immaterial waves,

Whose violet and indigo luster fades,
Upon measurement, into vees of geese,
Flotillas of scintillating breezes,
Each one highly particular and, and,

Dammit, endlessly indivisible!
We envy aviators' delusions.