(no subject)

There was a time, when we and the world

seemed younger, when your silo and mine —

separate in the desert, but with no other neighbors — 

would have been all right.  We would have passed messages,

maybe visited.  Maybe not.  We’d have seen.

 

Time was the frequencies weren’t frazzled, we thought,
our minds not entirely crazied.

That came later, of course

 

and after it did I flushed you just as thoroughly.

But a saga trilogy later, living and living,

here you still seem to be, around a corner,

an old poster on a wall: faded, 

yet there under the buried years.


Fred Herman