I could not hold your cold hand so the room  
retreated underfoot. Now a deer bleats outdoors

with the misery of the hunted. Or is it a coyote,  
the hunter? You remain somewhere else unmoving,

not in our bed. Years have passed. I regret  
I never placed a pint in your casket or tobacco.

Ashes collect in my throat instead of your name. 
I dream of you in powwow regalia—a head roach,

pink-white-and-blue beaded gauntlets, ribbon shirt— 
Potawatomi style for your grandfather. You hardly 

glance at me, too busy in the afterworld and 
dream world at once. Do we always disappoint?

Yes, it is a coyote yowling beyond the wall, 
a high register bassoon squeal no dog can make.

The night ripples curtains with that sound 
not tomb silence. Damp fog scents the wind.

This poem about you, to you—does it unsettle 
ethers, ripple the place where we next will meet?  

I just visited that spot of earth of goldenrod and lilies. 
I left you a pint of cherry brandy. Tobacco. Tears.