Anything but these ashes

I have searched all night through each burnt paper.
I can't think about it. I can't get past the breaking
down of things. The composting of all our physicalities.
There's a lot of fear here. For one thing why am I
searching through the wreckage when I know
it will never replace him, never put him back
together. And would I want that anyway?
Would he want it. Hell no. What am I talking about.
He wouldn't even tell me himself. Kept every detail
under the surface like some kind of humble
warrior. What does that make me? The one
ready to spill his guts and pontificate
at the drop of a hat. He never even wore a hat.

I'm looking here for more. Never satisfied—
always greedy. Is that it? And here's a
desperate spin on things—I keep saying
that word 'thing' as if I need to reach out
and touch, smell, anything but these ashes
—it's as if, I mean, the thought just occurred
to me, it's as if I feel that my own perceptions
were inadequate. Quite apart from the fact
that I am a different person now, thirty,
forty years on—but am I really so different?
More guarded, more sensible, more connected
to the 'agreement field' instead of constantly
questioning authority and hiding behind
the hip fashion of the day

—quite apart from all that, it's as though
I cannot or will not trust my own perceptions.
Oh this is ridiculous! History exists because
it is built upon many perceptions. I am
merely adding mine. Detective in cognito
with no hope of finding the body.