They take a boy in white and dunk him
like a digestive into tea, in a great American lake
dotted with stern American pine trees, pointed
like rockets to God, and I see it now, how he might
fizzle out and then froth into something new,
something righteous and smoother round the edges,
how he might fit snug into its palm,
and, with the practised flick of the wrist, skim
over the water’s edge to the rim of the lake, those endless
American lakes. There is one thing I know: to be buried
is no fate for something loved.