The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Faces of two eternities keep looking at me.
One is Omar Khayam and the red stuff
     wherein men forget yesterday and to-morrow
     and remember only the voices and songs,
     the stories, newspapers and fights of today.
One is Louis Cornaro and a slim trick
     of slow, short meals across slow, short years,
     letting Death open the door only in slow, short inches.
I have a neighbor who swears by Omar.
I have a neighbor who swears by Cornaro.
                                   Both are happy.
Faces of two eternities keep looking at me.
                                   Let them look.