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