Classic Poem

It seemed to have something to do
with growing old—or—
no—admitting to oneself
there must be all kinds of men
at each moment, and therefor
some age'd, faded and poor
whom no Helen ever again
will immortalize-with-a-kiss
(if any ever did). . . . Yes,
that was it: Even if, even so,
something else was astir then,
which doesn't let up or let go,
recommence, or forget.

The nudge of recognition in that.

Like the flash of one burst star
in the Magellanic Cloud
that kept coming and coming
for thousands of years, forever
and ever, straight at us—
and even so
never arriving, never remotely
imagined. But here now.











By permission of the author.