What will be made of my ashes?
More than thrown bones
or leaves that lie
in a cup?
I poured the ashes of my father from the plastic box
and tried to see a man there
Not even pain remained.
We who were left climbed a rock
in the desert where his last glory had burned
long, long, before his body did.
The backward Santa Ana wind
spread those minerals over sand and stone
indifferent, undifferent in their import.
Methodical Joshuas now incorporate that dust
into thorny, twisted limbs.
Neptune may accept me
And make something of my bones
Some coral or a nematode
The hearts I touched may heal
The minds remember
And if these words find shelter with another
Eternity will make of them my seal.
In early morning sprouting
A numbered mushroom building
towers just south of the old jail
across the street from the defunct hospital
I circle it slowly.
It looks like a bank, with a drive through.
On a small door in the back, the words
I round each corner and drive through the large colonnade
and still there is no name.
This exit from our lives has no name.
The building is large and crisp,
newly risen in the night
yet leans out over me
as I slowly slink away.