No bounty awaits the pilgrim.  
No portent hovers 
above this grave any more 

than the thousand others scattered 
beneath the linden trees.  
Instead, a half-dozen small stones 

piled atop the larger stone, 
a scroll of marble,
uninscribed.  

The unlucky wrecks he knew 
are buried beneath the sea 
with their cargoes 

of handcarved dice and futile 
altars, their livid compasses 
and cracked ship’s bells.  

Rather than tides, the riverine 
sounds of Bronx traffic: 
East 233rd Street, 

Bainbridge Avenue.  
Overhead, planes approaching 
La Guardia inflame 

the evening, their engines’ threnody 
wounding the air.  In summer, 
ivy tendrils and a humid breeze.  

In winter, snowdrifts 
obscure the letters 
of his weathered name.