We began in space, but it was time
That made us joy—and grieve.
You wanted theirs to be your rhyme
And I wrote to you so you would believe
In poetry, as well as me. Now that you have read
This, which one do you think is dead?
Poetry is ever hopeful someone will read
A poet’s highest need—
Will do more than read
The now of its ending
After its middle—which was then,
But think of its beginning.
And fall in love again.
