Excavation

Who says the polars are stirring? Ice
on top of the world sleeps longer, deeper
than a man frozen in it. In ages
there may be nothing to search for,
found bone, no excavation. Near Padua

a young man with curly hair brushes dirt
from grave markers with his thumbs
and no one mourns. He cannot feel
the incremental movement of glacier
down the slope. Spring rises even
in March and the air—he wants it healing

as it should. Shreds of cloth
decay an ancient torso and his mind
clears hair. Ossuary, ring holder, sometimes
he falls in love with the Roman girl,
holds her petrified finger in one palm
until darkness crosses the hills.
My dear friend Nicolas will one day be dead

and someone else will find his bones,
love them. If I could see
far ahead, I would want to know which place
will honor us, which museum make
us into marvels, twine gold into our hair
where once was only leaf and vine.

Copyright © 2007 Éireann Lorsung All rights reserved
from Music for Landing Planes By
Milkweed Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission