Thursday, March 19, 2015


Meeting yourself is meeting death, it seems.
Your reflection nods at you sadly;
You ride towards yourself at twilight
Wearing a green hat your wife has bought
But not yet given you? Order your affairs
Your time, I'm told, is almost up.
But why should this be so? Of myself
I am extremely fond. When abroad
I buy gifts to surprise myself at home.
My fixed intent, if I and I should meet,
Is to not lead myself down shadowed paths
To the last of all homes but to cry
"Well met at last! Come-- some coffee? My treat."

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