There are millions of children
now old enough to know—
large stadiums as far as the eye can see
filled with those who can now understand my poetry—
telling what you and I did
when we did it.
Yes, that’s me. Always the stupid poet.
Also, millions have died.
Millions who would have known, now cannot know we lied.
Stadiums of the dead
missing your lovely head on my head.
And turning fifty, you no longer care
That every hair
on our bodies used to mingle.
Now everything in the world to you is sad and single.
But you do love!— No, that’s not true.
Actually, you don’t love as much as you used to.
Because no one knows. And no one knew.