There are those days I think I hear the clocks stop
afternoons tripping over one another to be over
the stutter of the phone, rippling into the house
as if it could gladden us with your voices.
The wind would like to blow you from our fingers,
but it cannot – these joints exactly yours
these eyes, too. Even dogs smile in their generations
with memories of all that food gladdening their stomachs
in their one thought world.
What has it been like, being dead all this time?
We have seen the sun rise up and get swallowed into the hills
traced ourselves along all sorts of highways
in cardinal directions – like yours – and failed to fill those diaries
because the way life curls about keeping spin and cycle
growing into changeable fluxing continuous.
Now, we look at our photographs and see
it does come to good. If I could introduce you to your offspring
what smiles they would make for you.