from Ordinary Work

4. Although It Was the Dog

buried under the tree—and you helped
me bury her—

I couldn’t help
think of it as you

your ashes there—
although when they say “ashes”
it’s really white porous bone chips:
whatever’s left
from fire—

My unreliable witness: what you are
is not what I remember

the tree
the body turned to nature
over you

always more than intended

memory: the vortex bends
everything
that enters

before
compressing it