What happened to poetry, I wonder, sitting in a room exhausted. I seek her in hallowed halls and find her gone.

Where did she go? I ask, the light just leaking in.

I met her once, I think--perhaps in the town where I was born, when it was raining; but now I'm so far away, and so tired. Could it be that she has passed away, been scattered to the wind?

No, she was not so old, and always healthy. Reckless, yes, but blessed.

Could it be that she is angry? No, she is all-forgiving. In half-conscious twilight and in dreams I see her, always in the future or the past, until in the stars she appears, in the darkened hills, in the breath of cigarettes and songs on the wind.

I ask her to stay with me always, summoning all my courage, and she leaves, smiling softly, waving goodbye.