for Doug

In our portraits of the dead

We draw veils

Transparent and pure

Weightless, untouchable

Barely perceptible --

We walk through them

Like a breeze,

A passing thought:

We see through them

Into nothing

We are mostly unconscious 

To the truth of this, or lack thereof --

The possibility that our understanding

Is inverted, and instead

The dead see through us

Clearly, as if through a reticle:

Not merely through but into

And out again --

A devouring of intention,

judgement, plans --

The work we do and or have done

And how 

Our scores mark up 

Against a godliness 

For comparison's sake --

And would we feel it then, these

Eyes of the aftermath, 

Eyes of eternity

Poring through our bodies like light

Through a magnifying glass --

Or light trapped

Inside a prism --

Identifying each part unseen, unrealized:

Would it feel like air

Would it feel like this

Is it our breath