In another poem, perhaps, I will tell you how, when I was younger, I wanted my eyes deeper set-- as they are now-- thinking it would make me look sexy; Or about the hill on the way home that holds a cemetery, and of macabre winter visions I had one day when I witnessed the quiet winter sun's warmth steam off the snow there and drift across the road into the neighborhood below, hushing the living with its soft, thick breath-- before the mothers of my high school friends were rested there, when the ornamental house with stained glass windows and that patina'd green dome set on the crest in a stand of hemlock was still a temple, and kept its still secrets; Or about the green inside my heart, greener than moss in March, softer than that springy cushion, but uncrumbling when tread upon. Another, time, perhaps. Now, take me in your arms, and glide me 'round the room, and let's forget everything but the laughing as we twirl.