"The Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door and is standing there. I look at him with the discomfort of a half-twisted neck Compounded by the discomfort of a half-grasping soul. He will die and I will die. He'll leave his signboard, I'll leave my poems. His sign will also eventually die, and so will my poems. Eventually the street where the sign was will die, And so will the language in which my poems were written. Then the whirling planet where all of this happened will die. On other planets of other solar systems something like people Will continue to make things like poems and to live under things like signs, Always one thing facing the other, Always one thing as useless as the other, Always the impossible as stupid as reality, Always the inner mystery as true as the mystery sleeping on the surface. Always this thing or always that, or neither one thing nor the other."