How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder that a whole city—arches, pillars, colonnades, not to mention vehicles and animals—had all one fine day gone under? I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then. Surely a great city must have been missed? I miss our old city — white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe what really happened is this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word to convey that what is gone is gone forever and never found it. And so, in the best traditions of where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name and drowned it.
Thomas Lynch - 1948-
Refusing at Fifty-Two to Write Sonnets
It came to him that he could nearly count How many Octobers he had left to him In increments of ten or, say, eleven Thus: sixty-three, seventy-four, eighty-five. He couldn't see himself at ninety-six— Humanity's advances notwithstanding In health-care, self-help, or new-age regimens— What with his habits and family history, The end he thought is nearer than you think. The future, thus confined to its contingencies, The present moment opens like a gift: The balding month, the grey week, the blue morning, The hour's routine, the minute's passing glance— All seem like godsends now. And what to make of this? At the end the word that comes to him is Thanks.