I wonder whether we'd see ourselves
on a dainty handheld hologram
stuck between bookends
with titles of worn-out type
one sentimental winter afternoon
many moons from now...
Perhaps then we'd have outgrown counting months:
we might as well count the years
like they do the stars on a tranquil night,
naming the myths and figures
they've burned into our insight;
we'll dream of constellations—
islands of starlight that stood out
in an already pleasant sea
of living life with you.