That’s What the Dead Do

That’s what
the dead do.

The ones
who’ve died,

who’ve given up
their lives,

who’ve died for us
so that they say

to us
see here this is

all it means
to be dead —

to be no longer living and
to be both never

and always as never before
and after.

This is all
it means

the dead ones say,
So you die,

and everyone left living
sticks around.

You and everyone
who loves you

and whom you love
take some time

to mourn
with speechless desire,

and unspoken awe,
our long faces and

our sideways glances
(as if you might be

somewhere off
to the side),

here we come
with our living

fruit baskets and
soon to wilt white flowers,

good things
intended

to sublimate pain
to substitute one thing for another

& others pay
their respects

& others have their curiosity piqued
& a very few are glad you’re gone

though would never dare
say so

& most of all most
can’t care at all

and rightly so, everyone
can’t be this faced

with this much
that often

& that’s what
a death does

beyond doubt
one death says

what every death is,
& what’s out of sight

just over the horizon
not so long later,

a year or so
at most,

every one’s up & gone
on to other matters

the kinds of matters
that matter to the living

(your matter’s been burned
or by nature’s

routine chemistry
mostly dissolved) (but you

knew that)
(you knew all along)

finding reasons
to stay alive

finding work first
for fuel

& then for pleasure
& sex &

maybe love
or what passes

for love
& sex

maybe for adding
another

living human into the mix
for the rest of us

that’re left
& other ways

to pass the time.
Once thoughts

about how many of us
there are

involved
in so much

doing and coming
& going & searching

& hunting & gathering
& using up time

& space
& materials.