From no nowhere not near the sea on blue field flax the cemetery's absolutely solitary you and you and a third of a pound of bread for supper in the refectory where I would die of hunger if you--if soon--if on this unday--one undoing would be undone
Can she be planted where the corner of the garden’s rocks are down?
I would like bleeding heart or fuchsia to redden the banks
In their brief seasons. Rain, rain, Irish rain.
Diamonds on the stamens when the sun goes blind.
And sweet pea, pale pink, pale blue, perfume.
Please, if you can, make sure there is an ash tree, young and tight and green.
And bring back the smell of turf for the burning. Of her. Of me.