Paradise might have appeared here,
surprising us, a rackle of sublime coordinates
figuring over the trees, surprising us, even
though the look of the place seems not
altogether unexpectant of such an advent,
seems not altogether willing to settle
for something less: the fine light
prepared in the taut statuary of the oaks;
venerable churches of muted brick;
Greek porches presiding at the ends
of approaches; delicate fanlights over doorways
delicate and symmetrical as air, if air
prepared, preened itself for Paradise
to appear, surprisingly, but not very, in this place
—all it needs to be Paradise is populace.
(What has appeared, surprisingly, but not very
—stepping out the door, and down the steps,
groping for each next-lower step
with a left foot her expansive exquisitely garmented
paunch has prevented her seeing for thirty-five
years—is a rich, fat, selfish,
ugly, ignorant, old
bitch, airing her cat.)