Did they really go

Those people who came and

On these same sun warmed stones

Shared some shard of themselves without design?

Did they perhaps leave behind

Something less tangible than that self

Lost in the roiling jetsam of humid breath

Astir and brooding over gated cliffs?

Do they now descend upon

The vagrant eddy of passer-bys,

The trailing glance which holds too long

And pries apart the quarried shades underfoot?

In truth, did they once believe

That when these walls they made

Reared, unleashed, and scorned the sky overhead...

Truly, this achieved, did they yet believe

That they could still depart?

D.