What, am I dead in thee?    The limits what  are the limits?
The child speaks &  the open field of the present is the field
of the past. What  happened is happening, the poignancy of
past desire  and  earnestness  notwithstanding.  Wishes  not
standing.  But  after forty years  the voices come back,  old
selves contending, guileless  &  innocent of  what  they have
become: mute. The road the long road too hard to go down
or back. Cannot say,  the loss more than the gain, of  words.
All  knowledge  &  sorrow  enclaved  is in  the  heart  of the
child.  To bear the  world means losing it,  as  with last sight,
dimming,  when beyond the window it is a-shimmering.   No
need to say goodbye–