AGAINST DUST

When I die, I will not be demoted
to dust, just a flake of ash to flavor the air
or float downriver into the sea.
The me of me—whatever brightness that is—
will be gathered up by a force
that doesn't ask much of us except
to worship the world as it's given—
cracking plaster, busted baseboards 
barely giving off heat,
ticking like clocks this winter night 
when I become convinced,
in spite of the evidence, that I am
not alone. Shut doors, off-center, 
that open on their own,
holes in the hardwood floors
patched with duct tape,
every squeak and creak as I step toward
the kettle that no longer screams
when steam pours out of the spout
like a spirit leaving the body for good—
these too must be praised
until our ground time here is up.

KAZE NO DENWA (WIND PHONE)

On a hillside outside of Tokyo,
a man has built a glass booth
with a disconnected rotary phone
for calling lost relatives,
for speaking to the dead.

He dials his cousin's old number,
sits in the booth overlooking
clumps of grass and a blossoming 
plum tree, then he tells him
what's been happening lately—

the teacup he shattered that day
pouring Earl Grey too fast,
the iridescent green beetle
he found on a ripe fig
feeding on the juices inside.

Once he's finished,
he does not hang up the phone,
but waits and listens,
knowing silence will answer him—
or the not-quite-silence

of wind in the empty receiver
like the rush of water
in a seashell you keep pressing
to your ear, though you know 
the voices trapped inside
can't possibly talk back.