How peaceful he looks, the gates of his face
now shut for good, facing the ground. His body’s
hoisted horizontal, his arms embrace
the air, his penis a slack finger of gravity.
Two winged soldier-angels must stoop, stagger
to cradle his naked inhuman weight.
Their heads torqued, as if listening to the lead
of the body, they bear it in bent tender shoulders,
in the balked leaning and strain of their gait,
and struggle against falling. Their maker is dead.
And still the war continues, though it takes
other names. Sarpedon bronzed not breathing, the angels
bronze stumbling, all burned into a single handle.
To open the jewelry box, you have to grasp the corpse.