Could be paradise is a moment not 
a place, a moment like a monument 
that you can return to in all weathers 
and see pigeons. Our grand occasions stand up    
so well to gales they seem outside of time
yet not one will be there unless you are.  
Hellish moments are durable too, shameless, 
ugly statues.  Each instant is intimately joined 
to the one before and the one after, 
a trio of paper dolls among the millions; 
only the most ecstatic and disgraceful
detach themselves and soar, turn into 
dark planets or bright stars.  To summon
the exquisite we must exert ourselves to
remember, to banish the vile apply equal and 
opposite force.  It’s melancholy to think how  
the foul can darken and the dazzling dim.  

Should I confide to you my favorite paradise 
you’d scoff, then that moment too would 
detach from my telling and your reproof
would make another paradise, stone 
statue in a fountain, matchless paper doll, 
newfound planet, a constellation to 
which I could assign your luminous name.

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