John Ciardi's Ghost Poem by Bill Grace

There sleeps beneath our plastic roof
A frail piece of Russian soil
Enough of who I am for me to know no other.
She sleeps and I turn from diversion
To better hear celestial silence and pray
That a spirit will be with us to lay a keel
Amidst the swirl of eddies
Beseting lives smarting from life's many currents.
And with this - strange grief
that so many do not care -
About the living of straight lines
Or even engagement with the struggle
That ever keeps my heart from scorn of saints.