Buying a grave, choosing a mother.
August again. Morning. Wisdom.
Dreams: I am choosing a mother
in the future, before this time.
And in the afternoon, buying a grave.
-- There she is. Pre-war.
Bobbed hair conceals
ears. Starched white shirt. (Sleeves
rolled up with fierce intent.)
Hands in pockets of a straight skirt
of heavy material. She is looking
at the ground.
This happened once,
long ago.
As for the rest:
burn me and make my
grave in the stream and the stream-
bed of a fiery brook.