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The dead are always looking down on us, they say.
While we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich.
They are looking down through the glass bottom boats of heaven.
They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth, and when we lie down in a field or on a couch, drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon, they think we are looking back at them.
I feel like he's looking down at me.
Which makes them lift their oars and fall silent and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.
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