People are confusing and sad and always hiding
in their little snail shells, bellies pressed
down to the floor. My shell is a bottle I found
upside-down in a swamp.
What are we and where are we going? I might ask
if I thought an answer would come, but no one knows.
[I did not know what I was saying goodbye to.]
What makes me less beautiful?
You, love, walked out of the mist,
wrapped your arms around me
and left while I slept. Your presence,
your existence gives me hope.
What will we regret next year?