Some wear midlife like a blindfold,
And forget how to come and go.
They are certainly not trees
In the night. They are not the numbskulls
Of genius. What do they think about
When they are drunk?
Do they hurray to pick up
The rain and put it in their pockets?
Rather to companion the sure hat of
Mounting snowflakes. What of the
Memories of cemeteries? Autumn
Barbwire fences with leaves stuck
Like shoes too big for our infinite feet? What do they think of the etc
Of decimals behind the moon?
And what if I don’t bother to ask?