Perhaps Heaven is like being foreign abroad
where even the groceries appear exotic.
All is before you exactly as it seems.
Everything is as false and true as dreams.

The language excludes you, familiar and strange,
though all is apparently recognisable,
all absent and correct in the world as it is.
You are learning to call things by another name.

The money looks like works of art, pastel coloured,
value grown abstract and meaningless with beauty.
Relax on these caféd squares, inspect the view,
experience a larger meaning escape you.

Look, the lake is furrowed with the long white wakes
of steamers and ferries, clear despite the haze.
A silent, pale, triangular sail tacks its way
to a blurred destination. The car ferry hoots.

A baby is fractious or sound asleep. Half-light
filters through the high corridors of old hotels.
Now your artistic banknote promises bliss.
Perhaps visiting your Heaven is like this.