Perhaps the cord that tethers ability to success is both loose and elastic. As you bring your hands together, fingers pointing toward heaven, face scrunched in abject concentration, clear visions of inevitability are often no more than eyes behind binoculars, or legs speeding the distance of a stationary bicycle.
Maybe heaven's frame is the body, heart exacting rent from the mind in a velvet purse that secrets a hole and thus never quite fills with coins. Sidling sideways like Chagall's bride drifting through Chagall's blues, the seamstress sleeps in a rocking chair on the front porch, dreaming of empty canvasses.
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