What the Dead Know Poem by Robert Polito

Air here is like the water
Of an aquarium that's been lived in for a while—clear and still
Beyond the rigors
Of glass; appearing cold (and clear) as spring streams
Fed by snow and ice,
But unexpectedly warm to feel, and inviting; side-lit—
A vitality of shadows
Once you come into it, and long bars of light
Burning like spots,
Remarkable for the absence of dust in their sharp crossfires;
Heavy, as crystal
Is heavy, as if to move here would mean pushing against a force
Palpable, and strong;
Yet rich with prospects of life, comfortable
With the idea of life,
As if, put on its slide, every drop is stocked with wonders,
Swarming, about to burst—

Beautiful in a way,
One element sustaining another, our message brought home
So that the living
Might come to see. Harder to say that without them
We are nothing—
Water without air; or to speak of our isolation,
Or our special loneliness;
Or say as they look right through us, at their plants,
Pictures, books,
Windows, reflections, and blank white walls,
That we need them,
To orient ourselves and to tell us who we are;
Or that with each look
They are swimming to within our sights; or that we are always casting
Wider and wider
And that even now they are fighting to avoid our nets.