Seeing people who remind you
just a little of the dead
is always mildly disconcerting —

something in the face, the gait,
the shoulders from behind,
those likenesses that don't surprise

but somehow leave a trace.
It makes you think about their lives,
the ones they didn't ask for,

the small successes you're aware of,
the sufferings you aren't.
You measure their expended breath,

the start-up and the stop,
the way they fitted history — or
chronology at least.

And then, almost indecently,
you're back inside your own,
wondering what the point has been,

preferring that there not be one.
‘Meaning''s been too hard to bear.
We've had enough of that.

Seeing people who remind you
just a little of the dead
leaves you that much less intact.

You know by now but can't quite see
those almost out-of-focus doubles,
one of whom will one day soon

imagine the now-vanished you
and hurry home, a tad dismayed,
to work on lines like these.