and cooling metal
the raised hood of my car. The engine
had tightened to a small pop, then
the road threaded with mist taken from
bodies. Or that's what I thought when
hand to show the blister, the rotting
rubber. So we waited. You gave
halved by two rising lights, the planets'
path, all passing through the house of
was Ophiuchus, and that you told me
to go. Then others: I left first,
the cemetery miles up the route.
In Greece, Simonides watched a
into rock, memory: From her red
mouth the girl gave voice. All I can
graves know it. They know my epitaph,
my emptiness. Just hear me-there,
to nothing, singing our body's rise.