After his death
He had an inkling
He might return.
Be pulled back
To the living.
He was white-lighting
Tunneling through images
But things he saw were
Everyday
So that he figured he
Wasn't properly dead
But snagged somewhere
On splintered edges.
As a toddler, looking up
At the underside of a table
Rails and corner braces
Impressive as the rafters of
A cathedral
His dog asleep on an open magazine
A paper lake for a pillow
A woman at a thrift store who frowned at him
For no reason
He smelled
Juicy Fruit
And he heard a television which he hoped was
The background murmur of paramedics
It wasn't.