2002In this blue lightI can take you there,
snow having made mea world of bone
seen through to.Thisis my house,my section of Etruscanwall, my neighbor's
lemontrees, and, just belowthe lower church,
the airplane factory.A roostercrows all day from mistoutside the walls.
There's milk on the air,ice on the oily
lemonskins.How cleanthe mind is,holy grave.It is this girlby Piero
della Francesca, unbuttoningher blue dress,
her mantle of weather,to go intolabor.Come, we can go in.It is before
the birth of god.No onehas risen yet
to the museums, to the assemblyline--bodiesand wings--to the open airmarket.This is
what the living do: go in.It's a long way.
And the dress keeps openingfrom eternityto privacy, quickening.Inside, at the heart,
is tragedy, the present momentforever stillborn,
but going in, each breathis a buttoncoming undone, something terriblynimble-fingered
finding all of the stops.
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