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.
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