The only visitor is death. No one else.

On the eighty-first night after my son died
he came to me in a dream.
He seemed happy and jovial, as he usually was,
but after a bit I began to notice something odd.
Things were protruding from his shoulders,
his neck, and his back.
Wires. Tree branches.
Vines. All tangled, wild.
I tried to remove them,
but I just couldn't seem to get them all.
My son laughed it …