I have a little poem entitled Years.
Sometimes in weariness, I stop.
Because I've been lucky, I think the future must be plain.
Over the trees, the stars are quite small.
My friends talk quietly, and we have all
come to the same things.
Now if I die, I will inherit a while.
They're similar bodies.
Now if I listen, someone is telling a story.
The characters met.
They enchanted each other by speech.
Though the stories they lived were not the same.
Many were distracted into love, slept and woke alone,
a while serene.