Certainly the End of Something or Other, One Would Sort of Have to Think

The years have passed
Taking field notes of  the  hues of the day
The gait of the millipede, the smell  of burnt  hay
And the  occasional measuring of heart beats when she is around.

Thinking that you  are going home
Like  each of the faces on a passing train.
For them
You are  also a passing sight.

Preserving pain as if they were jewellery
In letting go you thought you were wise
But all hope inevitably fall in that precipice
You cannot step into the same river twice.



(The title is the name of an essay by David Foster Wallace )