Dead but still breathing, they walk

with closed eyes, blind

hope clogging

better sensibilities.

Sire, how much time

must I suffer

to pass, and to what number

must we count, before we choose to

remember that dust and soil and song are all equal—

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Equally home,

and equally

further from home

than life after death,

than love after

the loss of love,

and promises probably spoken

with crossed fingers

and averted eyes,

like shy, self-conscious,

self-condemned strangers

passing shoulder to shoulder

never younger,

never older,

lives paused in a perfect moment

on the street.