Rural Burial
Timeless evening, the hour
The hourglass lies
On its side like a figure
On a reliquary.
A mule is pulling a cart
Of heavy stones through alfalfa
That springs up
In the wheels’ wake,
Proud and indignant,
Like women knocked
Down by soldiers.
On the road a procession
Is passing, led by two
Blindered horses who
Strain against the weight of death.
The farmer takes off his hat
And shakes his head
At how short the casket is,
Short as a life,
And the mule takes down
The circus tents of her ears.
They are going towards a place
Where the earth is
Black and open,
Like a dying boy’s
Book of constellations
Splayed open on the floor.