Heaven for Helen

    Helen says heaven， for her，

    would be complete immersion

    in physical process，

    without self-consciousness-

    to be the respiration of the grass，

    or ionized agitation

    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

    participation in being， say，

    diesel fuel， the impatience of trucks

    on August pavement，

    weird 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 tiresome productions，

    things that want to be useless forever.

    But that's me talking. Helen

    would take the greatest pleasure

    in being a scrap of paper，

    if that's what there were to experience.

    Perhaps that's why she's a painter，

    finally： to practice disappearing

    into her  scrupulous attention，

    an exacting rehearsal 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 devoted myself to affirmation，

    when I should have kept my eyes on the ground.