From Dead Man’s Flower:

They sit in the front parlors of memory
like old women counting, knit one, purl one.

The dead never leave us.
Words we spoke to them echo through
halls of regret like high-heeled footsteps
receding down a waxed corridor.

The dead never leave us.
The gifts they gave us, the Lalique figurine,
Rockingham teapot, get up and run around the room
laughing, bounce on the sofa
whenever the house is dark and quiet.

The dead never leave us.
They’ve entered their dates on our BlackBerrys:
last anniversary,
last birthday,
last day,
programmed to pop up year after year.

The dead never leave us.
We welcome their ghosts into a photo booth
at the arcade, show them how to pose for candid shots
that we will never be able to throw away.