So

So, there’s no way to be sure. Not

about much of anything. No more about

anyone else than ourselves. Perhaps

not even of death, except that it’s bound

to happen. To you, yes; to me, us: the lot

of humankind, given how humankind sees it

from this near side. So what.

So nothing that we here and now

can perfectly know. Save, though the lens

our eyes raise, the old here and now.

The this, the already-going that moves us.

The red-shift we’re constantly part of.

And why not? Between what we were, and

are going to be, is who and how we best love.