Were things good then? Yes. They were good. Did you know they were good? At the time? Your time? No, because I was worrying or maybe hungry or asleep, half of those hours. Once in a while there was a pear or plum or a cup with something in it, or a white curtain, rippling, or else a hand. Also the mellow lamplight in that antique tent, falling on beauty, fullness, bodies entwined and cherishing, then flareup, and then gone. Mirages, you decide: everything was never. Though over your shoulder there it is, your time laid out like a picnic in the sun, still glowing, although it’s night. Don’t
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