That’s how it felt.
Viewing death through a banister rail,
hovering around it like an invisible presence.
standing on the verge
of beginnings yet untold.
An intersection of reality where
and it’s we who live whose hearts
are flat lined
the windows of heaven
And then, with movement forced,
the walking dead step out
into bracing, frigid air,
into the great swooshing world
and the ceaseless second hand.
How surreal, how utterly odd thus to stand
between the living and the dead
only this plague won’t stop.
Like Phinehas I look for something to stab
to halt the spread.
But the dead keep dying
and the living keep
As I gaze upon the moving I wonder
“how many truly live?”
as in remembered gaze
I look upon the motionless
and know how much he did.