This present tragedy will eventually
Turn into myth, and in the mist
Of that later telling the bell tolling
Now will be a symbol, or, at least,
A sign of something long since lost.
This will be another one of those
Loose changes, the rearrangement of
Hearts, just parts of old lives
Patched together, gathered into
A dim constellation, small consolation.
Look, we will say, you can almost see
The outline there: her fingertips
Touching his, the faint fusion
Of two bodies breaking into light.