*


The dead are already holding hands
and what's left they share
as memories --in the meantime

who do you suppose makes this tea
and the smoked fish, then room
for the grandchildren you almost forgot

were born later --the dead
are no better at it than you
--they mix up dates and places

though what pins them down
is no longer the flowers
soothed by each other and vague streams

--no, it wasn't you lifting this cup
passing itself off as empty
with nothing inside to unwrap

--from the start the dead form a circle
as if they still expect to sing out loud
and you would hear it, open your mouth.