Limitrophe

“We live with death, and die not in a moment.”

This quiet—what is it?

It borders on stillness,

But the air stirs the trees,

Rustling the last few leaves.

The world still hangs itself,

And swings in the balance,

And this isn’t silent.

Rooms can be quieter,

But they rarely partake

Of this feeling, except

When sunlight sleeps in them

Like a careless lion.

Ducks dive in cold water.

We’re at eight thousand feet.

This quiet—what is it?

Someone tried to die here,

But there’s something else, too,

Not to do with people.

There’s a hedge you can sense,

A charcoal line stretched out

So thin it’s a shadow,

When you get to the edge

Of all your human things—

Not past them; to the edge.

It’s in the other woods

That are and aren’t those woods

You see across the lake.

It’s the world our bodies

Were and are and came from

That our words can’t enter,

Can’t explain, can’t describe.

Let’s sit here together

For a second and watch

That neighboring country

That will welcome us home,

The part that isn’t us.