Guardian Angel Dust to Dust

I enter the quiet
life through a seam
in this wall. First time I heard

your voice was a homecoming. Tell me
if ghosts speak. With a pronounced
accent? Is the language

of flowers reserved for them
the way I’ve reserved myself

for what’s left
of you? Memory is seamless.

Destination Blues

She can’t talk
to nature the way nature
talks to her
through intersection 

traffic lights—take this
turn, now that. Come home 

this route tonight. She can’t
guess how a howling
wind would translate
on a mountainside 

but predicts her accent
would never do.