Why was soul not solar, not solid?

“Oh, stylists try, but hats just don’t come back!”

A sub- or super-sensibility,
exquisitely fine-tuned, can summon up
special information, specially told:

"Oh, murder!" she was heard to mutter, or
"Mary mother of god!" You see how close
these utterances come? Please kiss me, Mom.

I said something nonsensical to them
and they mocked back, "but we're your one design,"
or "you're our one design"—which was it?

Only the dead don’t know
what heaven’s like. For the rest
extrapolation is possible.

Destruction follows from the first premise.
In the sunsets you can see it happening.

The page no longer lies flat, it blinks and rises.
The words assume green or yellow vestments,
and officiously obstruct the way forward

The river tows its dreams,
consigned to the dim edge of existence,
reciting dull epics to desolate piers.

The invitations were returned
or people arrived on the wrong evening,
so your worst fears were fulfilled