Yes, sir—you are dead.
But don’t take that too seriously.
You will still breathe
pulling air through the waves
letting it go as they break toward the shore.
You must have noticed by now
how your chest rose and fell like the sea
full of plankton and spiny sea urchins.
You may whisper, if you wish
when the wind moves through the bamboo
or laugh
in the hand of a child meeting snow for the first time.
You will still know longing—
in the salt drop sliding
down the back of a sleeping girl.
You may even step into another body.
Don’t worry:
they all carry the shape
of your loneliness.
You will blink again,
this time through birds.
Perhaps you never knew:
a bird would spread its wings
whenever you opened your eyes,
and fold them back
the moment you closed them.
You will do much the same—
only this time, dear sir,
you will truly fly.