Saturday, March 23, 2019

San Sepolcro by Jorie Graham

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   

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   
finding all of the stops.

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