i.

death descends, in spite of help, in spite

of the one who would help who

is rendered instead—on the sweaty bed, on the cold

bathroom tiles—witness. but what is there

to see. they—we—used to say

the soul would slip like smoke

between parted lips & rise to hover

above its fleshly vehicle, giving up gravity

for air. maybe what falls upon us—each witless

witness, instantly alone—is

insight, that what we cannot stop

or watch we can feel: the dead

weight of what someone beloved has discarded

into our arms. maybe what drops into the scene

is not death, but life, the weight

of what we call carrying

on.

ii.

in an uncentral park, maya lin plants

a ghost forest, atlantic white cedar from the pine barrens

killed by salt from rising seas, claimed

for art to haunt the city

with the consequences of climate change. we cut

trees down for coffins, they cradle

our remains without audible complaint. lin

installed those bare-branched cedars

amongst the leafy red oaks &

maples so we could keep their corpses

company. close your eyes. lean

first against the pulsing, textured trunks, then

the dry, twisted wood. we startle away

from the absence of sap, feel death’s stillness settling

in.   life courses.   even through bark, in the most

rooted of creatures, it moves

us.