Downhill . . . and I met myself,
a pale ghost glimmering
the way a poacher’s torch shines
there – now there – between the trees
so it seems at moments as if
they too are ghosts, walking
in a new light, coming
out of memory towards you . . .
When we met, myself and I,
each cast the other into a kind
of shining shadow,
the younger self ascending through me
like a shiver, as I turned
toward the house below.
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