A textbook photograph most likely
led me to think the Rosetta Stone the size
of a library’s old Webster’s Third Edition
or two loaves of bread on a side board,

but here it stands, three tongues, or one mind
that can say three ways we say the one thing,
the breaths and sights of each way in rock,
a milestone in intangibles between them.

Reflected light from outside through the entrance,
duplicating on the glass case      the door
image that the stone itself is       opens
when you walk around behind it exhibit

the inhibition of letters, and I see you,
not a translation, step through from beyond all description
into the calling of flesh in black skin:
beauty. Beauty. Beauty.