You of the oblivious abyss,

of the dark canyon;

Eschewed within the estuary

of your witheringly turbulent despair.

You of strong silent undercurrent:

Muted frailty

carved in quiet centuries of stone.

I see you there.

We walk backward into the future

with eyes trained on the past.

The past is a mirror

of all the things we are.

We reflect

the might have been,

the dare not,

the never could.

All the things we never were,

we shall never be.

I see you

when you do not look at me;

And I look away, for fear

you will not see me

not being here.


Fall 1978

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