In the last dark sidechapel
The faces in the dome
Are bending down like nurses
Who lift, and fix, and straighten
The bed that’s always waiting,
The last place you’ll lie down.
But your face looks away now,
And we on your behalf
Recall how lights and voices
And bottles and wake glasses
Were lined up like the cousins
In a bleached photograph.
We carry this back to the city
Since the past is all we know —
We remember the snake called Patrick,
Warm in his Aran sleeves —
The past keeps warm, although
It knits up all our griefs:
A cold start in our lives.