We keep going back to the cemetery, turn graves
upside-down. We can see feet of the underworld
this way, can still grasp pink toes, wash feet
and roots we lost along the way, pray they won’t
disintegrate into earth for good. Creaking whispers,
though we aren’t listening, thump-thumping,
though we aren’t breathing the way our father told us
to: It’s all in the ears, his timbre voice outlines
the crown-molding, but foundations have disappeared.
It’s all in the rotation…When my knees and ankles
crack, I can’t blame the candle placed in the corner,
dancing in its own lush glow, pushed by his ghosted hand.