San Sepolcro
In this blue light
I can take you
there,
snow having made me
a world of
bone
seen through to. This
is my house,
my section of Etruscan
wall, my
neighbor’s
lemontrees, and, just below
the lower
church,
the airplane factory.
A rooster
crows all day from mist
outside the
walls.
There’s milk on the air,
ice on the oily
lemonskins. How clean
the mind is,
holy grave. It is this girl
by Piero
della Francesca, unbuttoning
her blue dress,
her mantle of weather,
to go into
labor. Come, we can go in.
It is before
the birth of god. No one
has risen yet
to the museums, to the assembly
line—bodies
and wings—to the open air
market. This is
what the living do: go in.
It’s a long way.
And the dress keeps opening
from eternity
to privacy, quickening.
Inside, at the
heart,
is tragedy, the present moment
forever
stillborn,
but going in, each breath
is a button
coming undone, something terribly
nimble-fingered
finding all of the stops.
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