← v11n2, Fall 2012
Poetry · Volume 11, Number 2

The Tomb of the Scipios

            They sleep fitfully, we hope,

in their tufa bedrooms, so old-fashioned

                        they lie down instead of ascending

in proper plumes of smoke.

                          What are they

up to, the living ones, in their Greekified gardens,

their scroll-crammed libraries? Who are those

            bookworms Aemilianus hangs with?

The best porphyry sarcophagus couldn’t keep

the slimy suck-ups out.

                                                   O, Appia, vilest of beasts

to the traveled foot, take us safely home.

            We know our eyes should never leave

your hard, black stones.