名人诗歌|Heaven for Helen

Helen says heaven， for her，

would be complete immersion¹

in physical process，

without self-consciousness-

to be the respiration^{2 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

participation^{4 in being， say，}

diesel^{5 fuel， the impatience6 of trucks}

on August pavement，

weird^{7 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^{8 productions，}

things that want to be useless forever.

But that's me talking. Helen

would take the greatest pleasure

in being a scrap^{9 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^{10 attention，}

an exacting^{11 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 devoted^{13 myself to affirmation，}

when I should have kept my eyes on the ground.