Item. A dozen beads. Adamic. Time
Lies thick about them . See,
These marks were made by water. The string
That held them all together is gone.
Quite so. Another lot.
Myself. A poor curator. Tourist girls
Shriek at me from their buses. Yet I keep
A small collection, flutes, embroidery –that flute,
forgive me, is not for sale.
Dealers in bronze, be quick!
Antiquity is leaving us. Observe. The city itself
Drifts through our fingers. Brickdust. Should I list
A skyful of scratches borne on the wind ex libris,
Visible only in certain lights, smeragdi,
Emeralds? From level six
A fine contagion of shadows.