Is being remembered really that important, you ask,
and yet the very fact that you wrote it down for others to read
belies its premise—and how long has it been since I lost
my innocent eyes that knew no doubt
whether to pursue the preoccupied with iambic metres
scattered across the yesterdays of enlightened fools
diving barefoot into the grass of the night lea?

You once told me that the intrepid look straight
and master all the right words, unlike us, the fickle.
We are a peculiar breed, creatures of timid vocabulary
who prefer an accidental graze, an answer cut off halfway,
and a picture taken with a wink. And we hardly ever cry,
but when we do, it’s probably because we missed the rain,
as if it all came down to the umbrella stuck in the rack.