They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
    Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
    We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
    Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
    Within a dream.


[The title translates, from the Latin, as
'The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long'
and is from a work by Horace]

the universe was marvelous last night
you took me by the hand
and we walked for a few miles
past the playground and the morgue
our lungs left vapor trails behind us
as the bitter autumn air licked our cheeks
but I didn't feel a **** thing
except for the warmth of your palms
pressed tight against my back
pressed tight against my back.