Suppose Brazil is heaven – not so far away
as to be impossible to get to, but far enough
that I’ve never been.  You might say this is fine
and I’ll get there when it’s time. Perhaps
you’re right, but more likely, because I know
I’m broken and lost and forgotten and feeling
like nothing more than a bag of bones under
a broken couch in a dirty parlor by a cracked sidewalk
in a busy little city half-a-world away, more likely
you’re not. More likely Brazil is heaven
and I’ll never learn Portugese, so that even if I get there
I’ll be alone, unable to find the toilet or the water
or that incredibly tall statue of Jesus — arms
outstretched, telling the real people who know
how to be there that they are forgiven.