if you were coming in the fall,
i'd brush the summer by
with half a smile and half a spurn,
as housewives do, a fly.

if i could see you in a year,
i'd wind the months in balls,
and put them each in separate drawers,
for fear the numbers fuse

if only centuries delayed,
i'd count them on my hand,
subtracting till my fingers dropped
into van dieman's land.

if certain, when this life was out,
that yours and mine should be,
i'd toss it yonder like a rind,
and take eternity.

but now, uncertain of the length
of this, that is between,
it goads me, like the goblin bee,
that will not state its sting.