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.