Wherever My Dead Go When I'm Not Remembering Them By Alan Shapiro Not gone, not here, a fern trace in the stone of living tissue it can quicken from; or the dried–upchannel and the absent current; or maybe it's like a subway passenger on a platform in a dim lit station late at night between trains, after the trains have stopped— ahead only the faintest rumbling of the last one disappearing, and behind the dark you're looking down for any hint of light—where is it? why won't it come? You wandering now along the yellow line, restless, not knowing who you are, [...]