"The Burial of Count Orgaz"

Now the man’s soul is a nightie in a chimney,
an angel his spotter; Mary dips a finger
in the white plume he climbs, shadows starched

into her robes’ drape. All the dead scrum
when Orgaz dies. One, far up the afterlife’s withers,
holds Saint Peter’s gaze. At his back, more

queue, a few peach-cheeked, most sallow or bled.
Some, penned in, flex their gray calves; some
late penitents pray, eyes open. None see the keys

dangling from the apostle by gold twist ties.
None storm heaven; a mime behind the papal shoulder
only plants his fingerprints on a fake pane

the better to gape at Christ. Strange heaven: where
an angel in lamb chops fills his lap with harp
and blanket, where babies’ skulls blister limestone.

Strange earth: the count in his carapace, clergy
wearing bookmark stoles, the bloodlet mourners.
Only ruffs of lace tell their hands from flames.