Grief Dreams

I bend close to the earth
smelling dark dirt, cold and old.
A wind is pushing me to hunt
in other places. To Follow
the scent of the dead into our past.

I am surrounded by blurred black
and white photos fluttering on
tombstones. Photos of smiling,
laughing, in places; pieces of me,
where I have been, with them.

I send them all away, my
magical arm scattering
them. Now, I want to
wear them, as a dress
of photos against my skin.

I see them migrating
inside of me, molecules against
organs, rubbing their black ink
across my muscle of a heart
in a smear of black and blood.

And the the wind climbs,
swirling above me, a spiral
of dirt and leaves, trying to
find form, as I keep trying to do
with the dead.