Me once: slumped in a deckchair out the back, Reading a wholesome Reader’s Digest book Which told the story of Heinrich Schliemann Gazing upon the face of Agamemnon – Only, he hadn’t; his discovery Went further back than that. My own history Had its funeral mask – hardly gold, rather The skin over the cheekbones of my father, Not that his death was openly acknowledged: Even a truth that’s glaring can be dodged. My dig for it, careful and conscientious (Unlike old Heinrich’s) unearthed only dross.
A snooze in the sun, by dint of alchemy,
Has made it shine, at least. A moment’s glory.