The split-second
when you wake from a long,
grisly nightmare,
or the breath
you take just after
averting some disaster—
that's when you feel sure
you are lucky
to be alive.
But gradually, as your
pulse slows to normal,
you realize
that isn't quite right;
you soon see, as if through
a transparent prism
in which many disparate
and invisible images
meet at one point and come into focus:
how this world
you comprehend so well
and elucidate as precious
really was made for—
and built—
out of them.
All the drowned and the poisoned,
all the swallowed
and the spent;
it's the lifeless
who endure
as pure information—
as our words, and our colors,
and our shapes,
and our numbers,
as the premise of our theories
and the climax
of our stories—
and, secure as you feel
in the continuance
you've been given,
you know they're
impervious
as "forever" could get
in the hands of the still-
temporarily-
living.
