Park the Wanton Mote of Dust

One notion of half heaven
Would be a huge and empty
Room, sunlight strolling through it,

Where one could be a dust mote
Observing other dust motes,
Not too damn many of them,

Just enough to demonstrate
How sunny it is in here,
How bright and empty, how still

And how vast—that a dust mote
Of a ghost, a word, a soul,
A doubtful soul, could idly

And visibly twirl for hours,
Glinting like suspended gold,
Never once hitting the floor.