They circled Powązki more than once,
stymied and frustrated on the brick perimeter,
finally rolling over uneven paving stones
to practice parallel parking like
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
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.
R L Swihart
1 November 2018