Here we see our
selves in transit.
Time’s the terrain.
Here are our sundry
faces, lost familiars,
the parade of we-were-onces,
bygones of the mirror
half remembered,
hardly believed in, now.

Precious beyond accounting
is this salvage, yet how
unaccountably it takes us
when it takes us unawares:
where are those years?

The past is hazardous
as well as treasurehouse.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 29 Number 5, on page 36
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