How lovely you are today, Plattsburgh,
on an Easter Sunday when
all the college kids are sleeping
or drunk or drinking still,
kept cross or quiet eyed inside.
People in high steepled buildings
have their hands pressed, closed
tree flowers in dawns new light.
They are thinking about some cross-burdened man
and the empty cave he left,
while I walk down a steep embankment
alone after a night without sleep.
Swallows in the trees
brown, white, loud
against the quiet rush of a river still thawing.
A girl I passed earlier
told me He is risen.
I said the sun always rises,
she didn't like my joke.
I didn't like hers either.
Even the sky has clouds today,
and yes, all I want is a room
with her in it, but she is on her knees
for a man I don't know, palm to palm
and head bent just
enough toward the ground.
An old heavy book held against her chest,
in her blood, opened far from me.
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