In fifty years no one will know.

            The heavens will wheel and the trees

drop their berries, but no one will

            know what he knows now about love,

the part already passed, the part

            around the corner, the part that

wrenched the mind from its spiny cave,

            the part that sheltered in the flesh.

No one will know how it all stood

            on the verge of oblivion,

the noctilucent air distilled

            in the sound of her voice failing.