Gone, I say and walk from church, br refusing the stiff procession to the grave, br letting the dead ride alone in the hearse. br It is June. I am tired of being brave. br br We drive to the Cape. I cultivate br myself where the sun gutters from the sky, br where the sea swings in like an iron gate br and we touch. In another country people die. br br My darling, the wind falls in like stones br from the whitehearted water and when we touch br we enter touch entirely. No one's alone. br Men kill for this, or for as much. br br And what of the dead? They lie without shoes br in the stone boats. They are more like stone br than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse br to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.