His hands—settled in the cross deemed comely
for corpses, X-ing the map of his body
with the hideaway of heart—now fall, now rise,
with chest with breath. His personal effects
pile round him on the few square-feet
of pavement he makes his. A sharpened stick
leans against his side—further testifies
he is no corpse; the dead are not known
to guard their worldly possessions. This rite
we living sustain, imagining the dead
must share in our desires. We think we know
the dead because: each chest is a heart’s
first grave. I trace his X, the stick’s fierce tip,
and turn aside to miss his waking eyes.