Reels into me on a Stockholm street—"Heyy, you old fucker!
How are ya! Remember the times in Veracruz?"
(And he is not "Stetson" and I am not T.S. Eliot)
What would you say to the ones you lost if they appeared
Before you as themselves, as who they were,
Not merely these phenotypes
That surface now and again in bodies, faces, in ways
They gaze back, mirror your own puzzled look?
Uh, welcome back? Long time no see? Where have you been,
And how? Or oh, it's been so long . . . But that
Is what those puzzled eyes do say
Before they turn back to the living
(Who needs to dwell more than half a second in Hades)
No comments:
Post a Comment