They can’t leave us alone, From urn and grave, meddling In our afterlives, the parents Of our old catastrophe. Unbothered by the windshield’s glare, The light’s leveling at our eyes, They watch us through our blind spots. The saints do not approach. In other space, they stand, Alert to their perspective. We’d pray for help unless They think a shade’s a help, Skimming its half-formed hands Against the rush of gelid light.