Every now and then they make
their appearance in a dream—
the dead beloved I last glimpsed
from a high window, brushing
their teeth at the chipped yellow
porcelain sink, then drinking
from a small plastic cup
to rinse. Or sitting in a sliver
of moonlight, in a white metal
garden chair, dressed in nothing
but undergarments. I look into
their eyes of cloudy agate, filled
with the sorrow of a child who can’t
find anyone in the empty house
to tug her buttons into place,
to tie her difficult shoelaces.