172
what's o'clock
And now I walk a weary road,
Bent double underneath the load
Of memory and second sight.
That bird is always on my right
And just ahead, I follow where
His body flickers through the air.
Sometimes it is as plain as print,
Sometimes no better than a hint
Of colour where no leaves are green.
But I can see what I have seen.
How many years is that ago?
I notice night and morning flow
Each into each: the seasons run
Against the turning of the sun,
But more or fewer—'tis all one.
She may be dead, and I may be
A ghost myself, eternally
Dreaming the short, ironic bliss
Of one long, unrepeated kiss.
Bent double underneath the load
Of memory and second sight.
That bird is always on my right
And just ahead, I follow where
His body flickers through the air.
Sometimes it is as plain as print,
Sometimes no better than a hint
Of colour where no leaves are green.
But I can see what I have seen.
How many years is that ago?
I notice night and morning flow
Each into each: the seasons run
Against the turning of the sun,
But more or fewer—'tis all one.
She may be dead, and I may be
A ghost myself, eternally
Dreaming the short, ironic bliss
Of one long, unrepeated kiss.
