I have some old letters In the fading handwriting of my dead. In fact I have your large elastic-banded history Here in this shoebox, In your spindly script. It is a history more endearing Than your earth-caked bones. Convictions you pulled at in the grainy paper Have swollen to big symbols. That is the subterfuge of ink, and death. The salt dark words Are a codicil bequeathing life. As the bedraggled sun Slices at your headstone, and below it the interred ghoul crumples to dust I am reading. When winter turns the terracotta earth to mud, And your grave rills with shrieking water Still I shall be reading.