Roman Room

Someday our buried life will come to this:

a shaft of sunlight touching the Etruscan

surfaces, the basin still intact

as if awaiting hands. How many

centuries sequestered is an expert's guess,

you tell me. I admire the tiles

some craftsman spiraled in the ceiling's dome

detailing Neptune's beard. Or someone's.

What will they say of us, who have no home

(we like to say) but one another? When they pry

our hearts apart and excavate the sum,

is that the place we'll lie? Where the words lie?