The Burial of the Faithful 

You want a day as boring as a shrub,
               a high, departing plane the only sound.
                            A Tuesday or a Thursday would be best.

Like shuffled paper or a ticket stub,
               the day should be unstuck from what’s around
                            it, loose and small, a button in a chest.

No pomp for one who’s walked this way since birth.
               It must be in the ordinary ground,
                            in simple clay and rock spill left undressed,
in ground the raw-boned face of winter earth,
                            yet blessed.