In Heaven

you can wear wool if you want to.

When you stroll inside these pearly gates

on our golden streets to choir Wednesdays at seven

(we need more baritones) or watch

the guard change smartly at noon

in the smoky throne room of the Ever-New,

no one will point out the ragged holes

that once upon a time, when time

made creatures hungry, indicated

surreptitious suppers in your sweater drawer.

Here, no moths destroy.

We have them otherwise attracted

in so much light.