John Barrale
The Eye After Death
Bones remain, not the eye:
its parts too soft,
the aqueous humor,
the iris and cornea,
the watery liquid,
and the thick jelly
are soon dissolved.
The images of a lifetime,
freed of obligations,
go nowhere.
One hour after,
the eye’s teacup ocean
is windless.
By cruel design,
it fills with aimless,
drifting things.
Slowly they sink.
Sailors and passengers alike abandon ship.
The optic nerve,
once so vibrant,
stops telegraphing images.
Silent, it lies in a place without light,
a cold stone in a tomb
where all gods are refused,
and no image forms itself
from a spark.
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