racing from grave to grave. 
Romans and Saxons and Normans, 
deep locked and rotten all, 
have grown used

to the express, 
to the commuter herds,  
and point me toward Picadilly 
from behind white tiles.

Lazarus stairs 
carry me to the resurrection, 
to the world where this man, Sam,

is playing his bucket

beneath a bronze enfountained god, 
ignored by flashing ad-space

on ten-story headstones,

and schools of red-backed buses

as they paddle on spidered asphalt rivulets

toward the Styx.

The living have their duties,

and so I smile and nod and photograph  
the eager Japanese.

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