we sift through the detritus
of the cellar—

tea sets, tennis rackets,
a whole box of Herb Alpert

& The Tijuana Brass (here my eye lingers
on a woman in whipped cream

lingerie, finger on her tongue, pale rose
drooping from her hand)—

until some treasure is found,
a well-fitting suit, a sofa for the apartment

next year. we do this
knowing that someone died

and we will, too, surrounded
by things; only unlike

pharaohs we are not preserved
with them. we do not outlast

the roses, the temples
we bury—