I didn’t see a rabbit in the snow.
I didn’t even see its shadow.
Strange, how this happened
to me, this nothing happening.

The war comes and goes
in the memoirs of poets.
They’ve never been happy, and yet—
they smoke, they grow old.

My niece looks like me at her age.
She asks what I write—strange!
I expect her to have my memories.
When I was 12 I played Antigone.

All of these words pass through
like atoms in a glass of water.
We’ve a little time each day to read,
eternity to love the dead.