Easter poem


The door to the book is closed;
The window which gives on the turned earth is closed;
The highway is closed;
Closed, too, are the waters, their lips sealed;
The door to the grass is closed.

Only the chute stays open,
The ruined chute, entering heaven --
Toehold and handhold, the wind like an accident,
The rain like mosquitoes inside your hair,
You stall still, you suffer it not.

-- Rose of the afterlife, black mulch we breathe,
Devolve and restore, raise up:
Fireblight and dead bud; rust; spot;
Sore skin and shot hole:
Rechannel these tissues, hold these hands.

-- Charles Wright