The dead (a simple fact)
come close to me at night.
They manage houses they never lived in,
polish spoons, lay tables, summon
a lazy sun-filled river
to lie there for hours, barely
flowing through my head.
They are my flesh.
I trust their presence
as I trust the bougainvillea
outside my window at midnight
is still red.

Round and round the moon moves
like plants do in their sleep.
The living, breathing as if their breath
was kidnapped from the sky
and the dead, breathing it into them.
I can hear a tree splitting
from a storm that took place
in another lifetime
and wonder where it fell.