The Dead
are always with me,
wearing my clothes, reading
my books, driving my car.
Just the other day, one of my friends,
long dead now, was writing
one of my poems. It began
much like this one, with words.
I wanted to write about clouds
and small birds doing arabesques
in the summer sky, the usual thing,
but he insisted on rocks and dirt
and worms. We went back and forth,
until we compromised on burrowing birds,
their plain songs muffled by the earth,
and a sky full of rocks that sang no songs
but made holes in the air as they flew.
Having reached this compromise,
we went for a walk and he pointed out
the actual birds weaving
invisible braids in the clear air,
and with my hand picked up a rock
from the solid ground. It was rough
to the touch and round, made for throwing,
but I didn’t let him throw it. Together,
we placed it where we’d found it, turned
and went home to have a glass of wine
and read a poem about birds and rocks.
It was midnight before my eyes grew heavy
and I turned out the light, my friend crossing
the dark room, closing the door quietly behind him.