My Dead

They grow in number all the time The cat, the Mother, the Father The grandparents, aunts, and uncles Those I knew well and hardly at all My best friend from when I was ten The guy who sat with me in the back Of the class where the tall kids lived Bill the Shoemaker from Lyndale Avenue The Irish poet with rounded handwriting They live in The Land of Echo, The Land Of Reverb, and I hear them between The notes of the birds, the plash of the wave On the smooth rocks. They show up When I think of them, as if they always Are waiting for me to remember I drive by their empty houses I put on their old sweaters and caps I wear their wristwatches and spend Their money. So now I'm in six places At once—if not eighteen or twenty So many places to be thinking of them Strange how quiet they are with their presence So humble in the low song they sing Not expecting that anyone will listen