Vulcanologists speak of decay,
loss and relic as Pompeii resigns

to malarial grievance, to the alluvial
flats of its harbor. Pompeii’s a parapet

fastening the dead to annulment. Their open
mouths sprout fruit and ilex flashes

through vellum bodies. There’s a cast
over the immobile leavening.

The sun kilns the Mediterranean,
flecking translucent greens upon

membranous gray. Pompeii’s fevering
from tides and thumping magma

underground. An asylum of heat
will rise, the drupe of a womb.