San Sepolcro

　　by Jorie Graham

　　 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