We are the body moving toward demise;
we are the soul, remnant of another life.
And always, rain tapping on a zinc roof
is the sound of fingers, thrumming flesh.
Always, I return
to the things of this world, tethered.
You, who have come to me
from something, somewhere, I cannot name;
you who have a voice that does not speak
any language I know, yet unfurls its wings,
alighting in each corner of this house;
you who are mine and not mine,
tell me the answers
while there is time.