May 23, 2015 § Leave a comment
(In the end,
the flesh falls back against the bones.)
We may scramble for the nearest handful
of postcards and ticket stubs
before they slip beyond the blurred horizon and fall
Not swallowed, but heard
Someone has torn a tiny, dense vent so they can
listen and listen and listen;
On this side there is no hush more perfect.
They are so, so quiet
that our sensitive machines
panic and imagine things,
when it’s really just the
whistle and pop of histories
snuffed by the fall.
We may lunge for desperate fistfuls,
but whole lives, and the stories they kept
wrapped in songs and handkerchiefs,
slip through our fingers
and are gone.
May 23, 2015
Image courtesy nasa.gov