dorothea-rising:

Those Graves in Rome, Larry Levis

The child died there, twenty years ago,

Of malaria. It was so common then—

The children crying to the doctors for quinine.

It was so common you did not expect an aria,

And not much on a gravestone, either—although

His name is on it, & weathered stone still wears

His name—not the way a girl might wear

The too large, faded blue workshirt of

A lover as she walks thoughtfully through

The Via Fratelli to buy bread, shrimp,

And wine for the evening meal with candles &

The laughter of her friends, & later the sweet

Enkindling of desire; but something else, something

Cut simply in stone by hand & meant to last

Because of the way a name, any name,

Is empty. And not empty. And almost enough.