Dolores Marie Costa

(Returning to NYC, July 2018)

I don’t know you
nor your ghost, the relic
of your being buried like
dinosaur bones of under
traumatized ground touch
Your name
Like a spirit archaeologist
Trying to find you
But the stone is cold and ornate
Maybe you are in the stream
Of water descending into hole

Square grave hole in writhing city
Dying in the light
And thriving in electric torrent
Were you an observatory worker bee
Hawking photographs to tourist
Emerging from elevator for final viewing
A cubicle laborer punching data
A first responder fleeing into smoke
To become smoke ghost speaking from stone
Or maybe just a fool to believe in life
When small people with wicked ambitions
Can impress your name into stone
The stone I touch in reverence and woe
In the crowd and young man touches
Another name, and crosses himself
As lights ascend in the night
Of a city too forward moving
To pause to weep any longer