We Are Going Away
We are always going away.
From beds with sterile sheets Or from upholstered chairs, we Speed suddenly through quiet noons. And the visiting hour finds us gone And the noon meal cools forgotten. Or on mundane streets we pass The last sign out of town, and days And years are highways diminishing Until the roads end and we stand, Not alone, but waving ourselves on. And we are going away still, Always quickly, always soon-- This, then, is my argument for love, That we compress the hoped-for years Into the hour we have and grasp The arm tightly and press the lips And speak each other into words That will remain. Rolling Coulter, Summer 1994, Vol. VI, i, p. 17. |