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.