HER BLUE ROBE
I was never a bishop, but the world's
A dream we die in. I breathe
Into a blue robe, take day lilies
From a jar out of her room
To a pail in the yard. Who would
Believe the grass growing so quickly
Between the bricks, the purslane
Spreading like rash over the patio.
We're done with her dresses, hangers
And plastic bags, the trunk of yarn.
Stepping over collapsed boxes of shoes,
I carry the last collection of holy cards
To the yard and burn the saints
With matches, that from these may grow
In full sight of her in pure stone,
The other life, continuing long.