It’s been, O, I don’t know, perhaps

seventeen years since I buried you.

(Angel seventeen notices, perhaps.)

That rectangle box lined in cloth

resolved back to dirt by now. 

Somehow I thought you’d be gone

—as in All gone. Bone gone.

But you’ll never be gone, will you. 

Just out of sight, out of this side 

of the vailed curtain. But deep 

enough you can’t float back 

above ground. Except as dirt. Earth, 

the resting place of all. Not a sound 

in this world drummed like your voice 

once did. And I am so glad. I’m so glad

you’re out of my nightmares.