W. S. Merwin
Because I do not hope ever again to pass this way I sing these notes now in silence each in its own time
These days I can see us clinging to each other as we are swept along by the current I am clinging to you to keep you from being swept away and you are clinging to me
A breath leaves the sentences and does not come back yet the old still remember something that they could say
Most afternoons of this year which is written as a number in my own hand on the white plastic labels
