The Dead

There isn’t much to say about the dead.
There has never been.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

They have ceased their lonely tread.
They have made their sin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

They had watched the listless breaking of the bread.
They had seen the wine swirl and spin.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

They had entered a pool of sin and dread.
They had curdled to thick, rigid tin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

There had been the thinning, tearing of the thread,
of lines that none could underpin.
They had fallen in their dusty bed.

Sunken eyes on a shriveled head;
the touch of unction on the skin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

Into nothingness they were led.
They followed the lying, crying grin.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

Now – there isn’t much to be said.
There is nowhere to start, begin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

a moving equilibrium

living with the illusion of weight, time and place,
struggling with balance and moderation,
playing by the rules,
hiding behind tall white walls,
dwelling in sterility alone,
desperately seeking the equilibrium.

sinking in the warped reflection,
the weight leaving the body –
a sensation, an inundation,
from earth to water,
an uncontrollable tremble.

ankles moving deeper … knees … hips … buttocks, belly button, breasts –
the cool water caressing the heated sun-lit skin,
exhaling – falling,
inhaling – rising,
moving – the lightness of movement dictated by breathing.

a moving equilibrium –
floating, flowing,
swirling continuously,
gentle liquid sway –
balance.

submerging, holding breath,
listening to the aquatic echoes, thumps and murmurs mixing sporadically.
the dim whispers, the faint clanking from down deep
gazing through the liquid locale at the unbending reality.
the distorted delicate swagger of branches throwing shadows,
the fluid milky clouds sluggishly gliding across the sky.

emerging,
floating again.

a lithe body on the pale blue water,
gazing at the enormous existence that crushes,
out of the weightless liquid comfort.

Lady in the Water: 1947

Toni Frissell: Lady in the Water (1947) (Photo credit: Brent_Zupp)