You found no curtain or grave which hid anything significant.
What you wanted you couldn’t have. Nor knew what the fabric meant.
The going was always that. Nothing meaty, just a going.
Sly binary! A series of x’s and o’s profoundly rejoicing and flowing
into what things had failed forever to be,
but made you, totally dumbfounded, at least for a moment, able to see
something amazing. W.H. Auden younger than he was.
An early picture which reminded you of your own innocence and fuzz,
the flesh pliant and soft,
Keats perched in a New York garden loft,
you, hearing of the successes of others
as life used up its sweet mornings, at last.
Who are you now? Those trumpets all in the past?