The histories that we narrate late at night To include in our own Herodotus, full of Facts, and myths, rumors, dreams too, which scrape At what it really was then, like cat’s tongue,

Is what I think of this morning, sitting with My back against an oak tree. Isn’t this how lives Become twinned, so that this in itself becomes later, A tale that will be told by us, or by the ones we may Pass on our lives to, another history to be appended Or concealed in the leaves of a bulging Herodotus?