Whose Name I Forget
Death comes to meet us
and doesn't turn back is how he said it
now that is great
I thought and the juices stirred within
the pot began to simmer
but really in the end it was his stew not mine
and nothing came of it but this: the realization
that our encounter with art
is a kind of poem itself that we rendezvous
as lovers do
and fumble to say our goodbyes
before the last train arrives
� 2004 by James Lineberger
