I clutch a picture
Tread this street
As I do a memory
Placing footsteps
In the holes I left
Hoping to reach
What’s gone.

I can see the past
Much more clearly
Than the present
And less the future
Where who knows
What’s placed.

At least in that
Crumpled ink
There is something
I can picture.
A lost scene when
My eyes beamed
In sunny weather.
Or at least that’s
What I remember.

And there’s no
Guarantee
That the future
Will be better.
It too will end
And leave
Something bitter—
If at all
Ever giving
Any pleasure.

Well, that’s unless
It doesn’t end
And lasts forever.

Which is why, I guess
In the end
You should fear death.

16.XI.24