This is not the weather for white clothes.
The sky is white and he is buried–
We need anchoring.
There used to be places where
You could not be seen
Standing up:
Behind the apple tree, but it’s bald now
Or next to the fishpond, if it was raining.
Now the garden is waist-high–
Nothing has taken.
And I crawl, palm-flat
Over the frozen black ground–
Behind the sad dead Christmas tree like a bad dream in a prayer.