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The dead are already holding handsand what's left they shareas memories-in the meantime

who do you suppose makes this teaand the smoked fish, then roomfor the grandchildren you almost forgot

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

though what pins them downis no longer the flowerssoothed by each other and vague streams

-no, it wasn't you lifting this cuppassing itself off as emptywith nothing inside to unwrap

-from the start the dead form a circleas if they still expect to sing out loudand you would hear it, open your mouth.

One hand held out-you expectit to end pressed against a rainalready mixed with turns

and falling too far-what you will rememberis how this road died down

though you needed both handswhen it countedthe way these handlebars

still reach for a quiet placeand the sound your arms makewhen holding close-she

would forget with youwhat's ahead, sometimesdripping, sometimes she would lean

as far as possiblewithout touching your bonesto make room.

Without a grammaryou practice the handshakesure whatever comes by

can be reasoned withlet you pump this dirt outtill its word for sister

is no longer bitterand handful by handfulempty your mouth

already alongsideand face to facenothing you say matters.