The second one is also in that book.
And it has an epigraph from Czesław Miłosz.
It says, "the witnesses are old things, undimmed, dense
with the life of human hands."
"My hand on chiseled stone fitting
into the invisible print of the mason's own, where
it lay a moment of that year, the nave was still half risen,
roofless.
There's a past that won't suffice--
years in billions, walls of strata.
My need roams history, centuries not eons,
and replica is useless.
The new dust floated past.
His mate, from the scaffolding, reached down for the water jug.
This stone or another, no inch of all untouched.
Cold, yes, but that human trace will burn my palm.
This is a hunger."