I have heard that the body
knows when to draw the line,

that in a single moment it will
save itself, slide quickly in either direction,

thrust the self through the door, bear it
away with a kind of love. Too deep,

the diver gives, soft as an egg,
under the weight of the sea. The falling

die falling, as if in mid-flight the air
rushes right on through the heart,

dead while the ground patiently
waits. The suicide has had enough,

lifts the gun, his finger finally bending
over that threshold. The living know it, too—

when the dream aches you suddenly awake,
begins its slow fade back into the body,

each muscle, each bone shocked
and alive with the blow.