What the Dead Know

Air here is like the water

Of an aquarium that’s been lived in for a while—clear and still

Beyond the rigors

Of glass; appearing cold (and clear) as spring streams

Fed by snow and ice,

But unexpectedly warm to feel, and inviting; side-lit—

A vitality of shadows

Once you come into it, and long bars of light

Burning like spots,

Remarkable for the absence of dust in their sharp crossfires;

Heavy, as crystal

Is heavy, as if to move here would mean pushing against a force

Palpable, and strong;

Yet rich with prospects of life, comfortable

With the idea of life,

As if, put on its slide, every drop is stocked with wonders,

Swarming, about to burst—

Beautiful in a way,

One element sustaining another, our message brought home

So that the living

Might come to see. Harder to say that without them

We are nothing—

Water without air; or to speak of our isolation,

Or our special loneliness;

Or say as they look right through us, at their plants,

Pictures, books,

Windows, reflections, and blank white walls,

That we need them,

To orient ourselves and to tell us who we are;

Or that with each look

They are swimming to within our sights; or that we are always casting

Wider and wider

And that even now they are fighting to avoid our nets.

Source: Doubles (The University of Chicago Press, 1995)