What hangs in the light is all—a fine dry powder, if I could
gather, you wouldn’t fill a jug meant for milk.
To think, we made more ash
than the body. How you returned to quiet
and earth. In the window, a slant—to bury
the dead is to keep in my lungs; of dust at its most
still, nothing settles—a fine dry
powder, if I could gather you.