"the dead"
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,
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.
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 warm afternoon.
They think we are looking back at them,
which makes them lift their oars,
And follow, and wait, like parents,
for us to close our eyes.