They lie outspread in time,
all threaded through with tubes of
pulsing dark;
the thin rows swing beneath green
counterpanes of hope,
cold under life;
the granite bed-heads, hung with
histories,
with details, dates,
protect each bone-blind man, each
woman,
chart each hollow child.
Mild sun filters through leaf
screens,
fingers the dust-dance air, our
faces as we pass -
but they are not so blessed;
they cannot hear our footsteps,
falling,
folded by the deep-skied singing
bell.
We enter each our hospice of the
heart
to pray alone
among the dead.
(May,
1988)
