In Pompeii, among the ruins of the city
are placed the glass tombs of the dead,
disintegrated by ash. The
faces encased tarry, as perfect as stones,
eyes furrowed and mouths
agape, hollowed as though in calling a name
the last thrum of their dead hearts
still lingering there.

Outside, now, in the small, New Mexican dust
storm the black, low birds
careening amongst the winds, turning their slick
feathers and swaying in the updraft.

Only a few things in my life have been carried
through to time, new and existing, like the white
presence of memory.
A broken pulse stored in glass. Aspens, possessed
by loose wind. That you loved me.
That I loved you.

09/12/2005

Posted on 09/12/2005
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