Those who dig up the past don’t need to be told
that hardly the millionth of a second

It was our lake, its waters a few spans wide,
and we were two lives too young to be old

I don’t even order a household slave
to slit my veins. Nothing troubles me.

When I enter hell, almost out of habit
I’ll shout Aspasia! at the first ghost who smiles.

The ghost of him presiding
over those last, lost afternoons

Tired already or just confused?

        —Are you an Ex-is-ten-tial-ist,
Mr. Mister?

Sandals are the youth of a shoe
And the memory of its trek to the desert.

All the crumbling things
Are on their way to becoming one again

The pressures of my life bring together my birth day
And my death day, like history books.