Finding Herbert

1 November 2018

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.

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