I ask my dead son how it goes with the wasp he has become, skimming the swimming pool healso is. Thirst, the sky says, naming him again. His tiny mouth sips.I ask my son who is alive how he travels. He’s walking in forest with a book. He says some ideasin the book hurt like bark and I ask for a bit. We cling like bark as the path bends.I ask the couch what it wants and it says either son will do but they should wear white andwarm clothes so they seem like light. I say there’s nothing like that in the house. The couch askswho is this half-person as I bend into it.I ask the duck in the swimming pool how she will get her babies out. Steal a board and a towel,she creaks. Wet the towel. More about angle + drift. Hawks in low trees.I ask my son who is dead if he remembers forest. He says laurel oak two hawks. He uses thethroats of other muttering, unseen things. Outside, mowers===another plan to be happy.Inside, a mirror drops o o.My dead sons asks if he’s now an oracle. Agitated at promotion, he fists a wall. The spot some-times resembles Q, sometimes o. Even Bill the repairman asks its opinions. Even Johnny withhis duster.The duck mother asks if I’ve seen her babies. Or food. She circles, groans. The pool stays a med-icated blue. Only wasps, it answers.I ask if disconnect has sown confusion into our policy. Why you talking ’bout my boyfriend,text 2 thumbs. I ask pillows for money. I ask sky for no outages. I ask a loan for a loan. What’s itlike to be dead, I ask. Seated at a corner table and thereby ignored, my son says, double-voidingnew cloud.Dreamed this, says sky. Done it, says storm. In the skimmer, a feather asks for its duck.