A decommissioned body is enclosed in glass.
Friends examine how close the resemblance
of was to is,
comparing notes and pointing fingers
to petty discrepancies, as if it were
a document examined for fidelity.
Visitors queue up to see the glass enclosure,
to check how worn out is the life displayed.
Perhaps the signs will be self-explanatory.
Around it, dissonant voices mingle
with the yellow light cast on its surface,
where both noise and silence kiss.
The layers of wisdom-
the thin white hair, the wrinkles in the forehead,
the sealed lips-
are like a sequioa's concentric circles
while it lies fallen, cut in two
just like him unable to sit, nor rise.
After which things change,
when loneliness wakes up and the dead
disappears from view,
from their lives,
from what still matters.
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