We say our prayers for the dead while the
burial workers finish Alix’s grave. Their
labor sounds almost orchestral, like a
riff performed on timpani, gaining speed.
Later we’ll say Kaddish for this young man.
While the wind blows the tent on its
armature of sturdy pipes, the canopy
and curtains lift and fold, lift and fold.
It is the motion of wings, over and over,
slowly mounting the path into the sky.