Reincarnation, life everlasting-- call it whatever you will-- it will not change the facts: we are ashes of stellar death. And, in the end, wishing on shooting stars is like pinning your hopes on the last sound of the whistle trailing off, last chord of the train sparking on the tracks then fading into the dark.
When the dead return
they will come to you in dream
and in waking, will be the bird
knocking, knocking against glass, seeking
a way in, will masquerade
as the wind, its voice made audible
by the tongues of leaves, greedily
lapping, as the waves’ self-made fugue
is a turning and returning, the dead
will not then nor ever again
desert you, their unrest
will be the coat cloaking you,
the farther you journey
from them the more
that distance will maw in you,
time and place gulching
when the dead return to demand
and wanting and wanting
everything you have to give and nothing
will quench or unhunger them
as they take all you make as offering.
Then tell you to begin again.