They circled Powązki more than once,

stymied and frustrated on the brick perimeter,

finally rolling over uneven paving stones

to practice parallel parking like

everyone else
*
Red wall. Neglected entrance. A beautiful truce

between gray and green
*
D. O. M. Luckily they ran into an aide-de-necropolis

carrying a watering can, eyes like bright corners

of a wet sky. He had the secret number

and an imperfect map
*
She handled the device, fed it the correct data,

translated the voice: Seek ZH in Section 14,

near the catacombs 
*
Along the semi-rectilinear paths,

she picked Polish celebrities

like asphodels 
*
He (Niemiec/Numbnuts) spotted only Wieniawski

and Chopin’s Family
*
And suddenly, one stone stepping out of the mosaic: there he was.

There he wasn’t. He was with the others and alone. More black

than gray, but still shining. A universal cross. A sub-INRI.

A fairly horizontal slab for rolling ordinary bones.

Not yet. Not yet. And no one said it.

She’s still combing her hair.