Even now the tiny chapel of the original Presidio São José           built, some say, on the blood and crushed skulls of                the first prisoners, smells of damp and old prayers but the immense glass wall makes a frame           we look in on and go on looking in on,                the paper cross high up on the far wall                wavering in the slightest current.      The dreaded, cramped solitary cell is exactly as it was in the 1800’s—                the curious can enter and leave at will,                     but when I stepped inside           beneath the new fountain of white quartz,           fracturing water and light,                singing tunelessly, tirelessly all to itself,                     beneath the fountain in the courtyard                I could hear the old stones weeping.