In Praise of the Death of a Child


You have been over-educated. 
When the grass holds its fingers, you no longer count 
You know gray bird sky. 

And that quaint cock of your headstone 
Tilts the shivering wind.
Deliberately. You are not so innocent. 

Mourning has set you in stone 
And white weeds breathe 
When you twist in the earth. 


(First published in Grand Street)