Gone， I say and walk from church，

    refusing the stiff procession to the grave，

    letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.

    It is June.  I am tired of being brave.

    We drive to the Cape¹.  I cultivate

    myself where the sun gutters² from the sky，

    where the sea swings in like an iron gate

    and we touch.  In another country people die.

    My darling， the wind falls in like stones

    from the whitehearted water and when we touch

    we enter touch entirely³.  No one's alone.

    Men kill for this， or for as much.

    And what of the dead？  They lie without shoes

    in the stone boats.  They are more like stone

    than the sea would be if it stopped.  They refuse

    to be blessed， throat， eye and knucklebone.