Variation 17: Like Waking

Will death be like this? Like waking from a long dream still held—grounded— in the body disremembered? Spinning ceiling, close call? Foolish beating heart? Those trembling aftershocks of some electric message where bone met motion, clamoring in ligaments, that lingering tremolo singing in the ears like doubt, maybe the echo of some unrecognized once-familiar name. Estranged touch of wind over skin, on damp arms the hair not yet laid down . . . Breath's sour fluctuations not quite tamed. Cheeks' flush loosening, a displaced temperature sensed, unseasonal. Flash of light burning against walls, image after image, an eye, a frame, missing there. Where, searching, searchless, you can't point to or put a finger on, nevertheless an urge surging in raised fingers. A circle discontinuous, once rounded out by mouth. Throbbing inside the brow, no accessible thought. Specifically no memory arising from follicles still tingling, the dulling skull heedless, singed with salty pores. What if it's like this, only without the body?