How many of those I knew
(if I really knew them),
men, women
(if the distinction still holds)
have crossed that threshold
(if it is a threshold)
passed over that bridge
(if you can call it a bridge)—
How many, after a shorter or longer life
(if they still see a difference),
good, because it’s beginning,
bad, because it’s over
(if they don’t prefer the reverse),
have found themselves on the far shore
(if they found themselves at all
and if another shore exists)—
I’ve been given no assurance
as concerns their future fate
(if there is one common fate
and if it is still fate)—
It’s all
(if that word’s not too confining)
behind them now
(if not before them)—
How many of them leaped from rushing time
and vanished, ever more mournfully, in the distance
(if you put stock in perspective)—
How many
(if the question makes sense,
if one can verify a final sum
without including oneself)
have sunk into that deepest sleep
(if there’s nothing deeper)—
See you soon.
See you tomorrow.
See you next time.
They don’t want
(if they don’t want) to say that anymore.
They’ve given themselves up to endless
(if not otherwise) silence.
They’re only concerned with that
(if only that)
which their absence demands.