A man leaves the world

    and the streets he lived on

    grow a little shorter.

    One more window dark

    in this city， the figs¹ on his branches

    will soften² for birds.

    If we stand quietly enough evenings

    there grows a whole company of us

    standing³ quietly together.

    overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees

    and the sky which sews and sews， tirelessly sewing，

    drops her purple hem⁴.

    Each thing in its time， in its place，

    it would be nice to think the same about people.

    Some people do. They sleep completely，

    waking refreshed. Others live in two worlds，

    the lost and remembered.

    They sleep twice， once for the one who is gone，

    once for themselves. They dream thickly，

    dream double， they wake from a dream

    into another one， they walk the short streets

    calling out names， and then they answer.