i.m. Sten Söderström
The dead, we say, are the departed. They
pass on, they pass away, they leave behind
family, friends, the whole of humankind—
They have gone on before. Or so we say.
But could it be the opposite is true?
Now, as I stand here in the graveled drive
at moonrise, unaccountably alive,
I have the sense that it is we, not you,
who are departing, spun at breakneck speed
through space and time, while you stay where you
intimate of dark matter and bright star—
and watch the brilliant, faithless world recede.
2001; originally printed in Dark Horse.
permission of the author.