They offer cremation and he refuses,
cites when pressed the Church,
the raising of the body
incorruptible. Though in truth,
that just occurred to him, and his heart's belief
is deeper. The body is a door
closed against the air (the soft rooms,
the galleries and chambers.) What he fears
isn't heat but light -- the ducts of bones
running like mill flumes, like flutes, like smokestacks,
like telegraphs --
behind his ribs the telephone
rings and rings.
_______
The title is a quotation from May Sarton.
The poem is based on an early draft from Ghost Maps -- if you couldn't guess.
