The dead sift through us
without flesh, bone, hair,
or whatever else the stars concoct
for us to touch.

Reaching for the velvet muzzle
of a horse, their hands pass on through
never feeling the warm breath in their palms.

Try catching wind as it runs over wheat
leaving it in shocked repose.

Cruel - to see the one you love
and realize neither tongue nor limb.
Desire is an unattached shadow.

Dashing without thought against the day,
we complain at the slightest wound.
The dead drift by longing for a bruise.