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we all disappeared,
walked straight out of our poems
and into heaven.
We left the old breakfast things,
the pincers,
the practically perfect savings.
We found a heart stump
and an indigo eye.
It all smelled of ammonia.
The indigo eye saw a tree,
whole in front of the black else,
drenched and shining.
In a differently-bodied vision
light iced a snow-white clearing.
But the great sadness
beyond all the gadding
was this:
Paradise is wordless.
An ice palace.
And that is why
I'll reach for the apple sandwich any day,
and that old sky of ours,
blazing with stars
in the night of the 10,000 things.
I'll sing in the rusty shower stall.
I'll take my stand in the wandering room.
I'll boast at the seams.
Ah, this is hard, bright Daddy.