(From the Tomb of the Count of Burgundy)
His book, wrapped in cloth, drags
down his right hand, holds it
still as the rock it is.
A cowl shadows his face—
though that was carved—shaped just
to hide in this white shade.
His left hand clutches cloth,
precise disarray falls
from his feet to his face—
Cool stone folds, white with tears
shed beneath a real corpse
constantly. His shoulders
can’t vibrate. This grief can’t
breathe. His sorrow’s frozen.
This mourning is eternal.
Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for 50 years. He’s the author of five full-length collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. A novel, A Book of Lost Songs is due out in Spring of 2025.He’s fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Dante, and his wife, activist Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco where he points out pretty things.