I do not think that love will reach the dead—
and, the seven weeks of Mormonism pending,
I do not think they should have much regret:
the marginalia and mania survive them
and that was all they might have taken.
My own destiny is hard enough to salvage
from the safety pins, the thin discs of soap—
the plenty and the lack converging, the left hand
of the dead laid over the right hand
of the living, the left hand of the living
laid over the right hand of the dead.
I do not think the shadow of the cloud
is sign, until the hawk lays his shadow down.
I have no proof the dead survive the call.