I pulled the curtain aside: the half moon was rising
through a blur of white clouds like the frayed cross-straps
of a foundering lawn chair.
At such times the soul holds lightly to the body,
snubs itself against frail anchors, longs to go with the wind,
over the ruffled harbor, out to sea.
You may hold the rib cage in both hands and lift
and turn it; letting loose as it fills on the inbreath,
bearing down again on the outbreath; the soul
rests in its body then like an egg in the nest,
like a ball in the hand of a juggler, like an apple
passed to the reach of a child in the back seat of a car.
I pause on the stairs, holding back the curtain,
half, like the moon; surrounded by the clustered
questioning dead, not ready, maybe, to make that journey,
but free to go.