When I see a couple of
And guess he's fucking her and
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is
Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives—Bonds and gestures pushed to one
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long
To happiness, endlessly.
I wonder
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought,
That'll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the
About hell and that, or having to
What you think of the priest.
And his lot will all go down the long
Like free bloody birds.
And
Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.
