Until only last week I hadn't thought
Of myself as seriffed or sans seriffed,
Or whether one should be buried when

One's time to be buried does come, like
Carlo Scarpa at San Vito d'Altivole, wrapped
In linen and standing up, or would he

Feel as light as an olive, two grams
On a stem, or il succhione we cut off
At the base of the olive tree in August,

That Beppe says is a vulgar word and
Wouldn't use it, and I think of Shrovetide,
Three days of a season of writing before all

Is ash, and then the good Friday of all of our
Lives, an alert sent to our email inbox,
Or a Contessa who has her written confession

Delivered to her priest, and thinking of John
Donne with his Anne More eclipsing the sun,
But then a large part of death is just showing

Up, whether enslaved or free, whether by chance
Or by plan, whether fancy or plain, weighted
With oil or not, or with anything that might be left over.