And who wouldn’t have guessed
that it would come back
to these dust covered windows,
coated in a grainy paste.
I’ve seen them before. I think of them often.
Those dust covered windows, those dust covered windows…
Your eyes on the other side. A flash of deep history;
I can’t jog my memory unless it comes up to me.
Should that happen, should I find you there
waiting in the fog-filled room,
should that happen, I will run out at dawn
and feel in good company
(though there won’t be anyone around).
I’ll make jokes, in the gray silence of the world
and won’t feel that they were wasted
in any sense of the word (whether or not they are found).