Called "The Friends of Heraclitus."
Your friend has died, with whom you
roamed the streets at all hours talking philosophy.
So today, you went alone, stopping often
to change places with your imaginary companion,
and argue back against yourself on the subject of appearances--
the world we see in our heads, and the world we see daily--
so difficult to tell apart when grief and sorrow bow us over.
You, too often, get so carried away,
you find yourself in strange neighborhoods
lost among unfriendly folk, having
to ask for directions, while on the verge of a supreme insight,
repeating your question to an old woman or a child,
both of whom may have been deaf and dumb.
What was that fragment of Heraclitus
that you were trying to remember as you stepped in a butcher
shop?
Meantime, you yourself were lost between someone's
new black shoe left on the sidewalk and the sudden terror
and exhilaration at the sight of a girl dressed up
for a night of dancing, speeding by on roller skates.