"Who knows?'
"I know."
"Oh shut up, Herman. You don't know."
"Maybe. But who?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"I don't either."
"Neither do I."
"That's the way it is. Nobody knows!"
"What shall we do? How shall we proceed, if nobody knows?"
"I don't exactly know."
"Oh my God, my God, nobody knows!"
"Nobody?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody knows."
"Sharon," the wise man said. "Sharon." He lifted his eyes to the star from the field where he stood. "Sharon," he repeated.
"Yes?" Sharon the star answered.
"Sharon, give me life," the wise man said.
"I can't," Sharon the star answered.
"I was afraid of that," the wise man said. "Ethyl," he called.
What it is I well remember,
Puppy-like, the old ones call it,
Senses enter little in it,
Intellect but matters small.
Just as little sway convenience
Gives to fan the flame of youth;
Or security-- the blinded,
Clinging des'prate to each other--
Old ones falter oft in this.
One too young to know the rules,
Those the old ones say must be
Before a love can happen, only
He can know of which I write.
O burn-ed butt of a cigarette,
lying there sidewise,
all scrunch-ed up
in the dirty ashtray,
why did I smoke you
down to your filter,
full of tars
and nicotine
and who knows what?
Because you were mine
and I wanted to
is why;
that's why.
What were you to me?
A moment's pleasure,
a soft glow;
no more,
no more.
Can you ever be replaced
in my breath,
in my blood,
in my voice,
in my heart?
Already another glows beside your corpse,
lying there sidewise,
all scrunch-ed up
in the dirty ashtray.
