An ancient city of light is buriedin my chest. Before the French (or was itthe Germans) my father tucked it in there& placed me on a boat. Be a good littlesmuggler & forget our names. At nightI opened my mouth to the water & strangeshapes came to investigate. I begged themto absolve me. The Lord spared the animalsguilt, for in the wild everything that liveslives instead of something else. A quiet lifehas turned me earth - soft mud & eggshell.When you kissed me a stove flicked on,generators began to hum. We left eachother like altars in a bombing run. In thisroom where you are not, night lowers itselfall around me. I stare at my fingers - littlearchaeologists clutching brilliant shovels.They leap from my hands & begin to dig.After unsayable years, the clay, remnantsof lamps, & then the city, & then the light.The archaeologists cart its body to a fountainwhere old women drop their buckets & fall,wailing like chimneys, to their knees. A boyis healed when his wound is brought & baredbefore the glow. Of course the governmentintervenes, as they must always intervene,orders it cloaked in metal & dropped upona country. But there it wraps the childrenin shawls of unfused atoms, their mothersin gowns of light-silk, & fathers fall asleepin trenches while rifles morph into violinsplaying as we waltz in a room by the river,as the light melts our shadows into oneshadow, & Sal, we thought, we thoughtwe were dead, but we are not yetfinished dying.