But for the thirteen letters
of his name and the chiseled
dates that a hyphen spans—
as if it were the only
vital bridge between
two chartless lands:
those vast oblivions
of before he was and after—
I might mistake this granite
for something winter heaved
carelessly into the thawed
New England light, a stepping-
stone in mud season, yet one
a farmer would nevertheless take
a shovel to, as would I
were it not so precisely set
flush with the green earth
and I could undo the mason’s marks.
from The Burning of TroyFind it in the library
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