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David Chalmers: Fragments of consciousness

The New York Review of Books

Poetry 180

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Memories


I
t takes our breath away

   Looking up at all that blue—

She took his hand and let him go

   And like the wind he sighed

I know why the dead don’t talk:

   Day is day and night is hidden

In our hearts. A babe lies abandoned

    In an eagle’s nest. He lies

There in the half-light, yet alive—

    The wind gathers up all lost souls

And scatters all the dust and ash,

    The sky turning blue

In the blesséd ruin of our eyes.