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.