the dead are not as gone as we think
nor as quiet – their bones rattle us
when we least expect – early
asparagus in the produce aisle, the vigorous
bowing of a double-bass, pipe smoke
drifting from an open window

no incantation can settle our minds’
restless associations, the constant
monkey quest for pattern – past and present
overlaid until the light that shines
through or the shadows that fall
between trigger recognition