Roman Room

Someday our buried life will come to this: a shaft of sunlight touching the Etruscan surfaces, the basin still intact as if awaiting hands. How many centuries sequestered is an expert's guess, you tell me. I admire the tiles some craftsman spiraled in the ceiling's dome detailing Neptune's beard. Or someone's. What will they say of us, who have no home (we like to say) but one another? When they pry our hearts apart and excavate the sum, is that the place we'll lie? Where the words lie?