by Mark Doty

    Helen says heaven， for her，

    would be complete immersion¹

    in physical process，

    without self-consciousness-

    to be the respiration² of the grass，

    or ionized agitation³

    just above the break of a wave，

    traffic in a sunflower's thousand golden rooms.

    Images of exchange，

    and of untrammeled nature.

    But if we're to become part of it all，

    won't our paradise also involve

    participation⁴ in being， say，

    diesel⁵ fuel， the impatience⁶ of trucks

    on August pavement，

    weird⁷ glow of service areas

    along the interstate at night？

    We'll be shiny pink egg cartons，

    and the thick treads of burst tires

    along the highways in Pennsylvania：

    a hell we've made to accompany

    the given： we will join

    our tiresome⁸ productions，

    things that want to be useless forever.

    But that's me talking. Helen

    would take the greatest pleasure

    in being a scrap⁹ of paper，

    if that's what there were to experience.

    Perhaps that's why she's a painter，

    finally： to practice disappearing

    into her  scrupulous¹⁰ attention，

    an exacting¹¹ rehearsal¹² for the larger

    world of things it won't be easy to love.

    Helen I think will master it， though I may not.

    She has practiced a long time learning to see

    I have devoted¹³ myself to affirmation，

    when I should have kept my eyes on the ground.

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