Whatever I said was gone
Is probably still alive,
Including you, me, and the old guy
Who showed up with the lost
Wildlife tonight to help us get by.
I say it, and I forget it,
And I say it all over again.
I'm no good at prediction,
And I tend to encourage
Myself to think it's the end.
Here we are. Fire in the grate,
Wood in the pile, and a moon,
Or a sliver of such, high
In a wintry black sky, as the stag
I wrote you would die
Curls up next to the double-panes
With a new-found doe, planning,
I'd guess now, to make out like us.
Find dumb lucky love, be happy
At last, and thrive, I bet, thrive.