by David Bates

Someday when I'm 50
       and you're 23
And time is spread its powdered bones
          over your smile and
          the way you sat
       I'll go a day w/out thinking of you?
                    maybe two but
                     not in a row.

And someday when the years
       have grown too tired to add themselves together
       and you're still 23
       I'll rake the dead leaf autumn angels
                into piles

And bring them to you.