Keeping Up with the Dead
I hear them running
through dream, listen to
things they said, recall
we walked beside creeks
and ponds, viewed skies and
sunsets, dogwood trees,
magnolias, lakes.
Specificity
becomes their nature,
that is to say words
come from the same lips
planted a sloppy
kiss on my cheeks, a
wet repulsion.
They keep going on
down a sad hole in
which I place marbles
greased with shame, spiral
tunnel to the end
of all things I once
believed in such as
fractions, decimals,
infinity, pi.