Don Barkin

When you descend into a tomb
it isn't the tincture of death you sniff
but the musk of Time. The misty mind
cools to dew where mushrooms glow.
So the man goes home, a citizen
of the empire of things that simply exist,
shining like dust in the darkened parlor.

Take Abraham Lincoln in his tomb
where it may be there molders still
a shred of frock, of silky sock,
or even a shard of spindly digit.
You think you sniff him lifting off
to History. But he's heading for
the bleachers, where he'll lose that hat.