Those friends of mine were people who chased life to the ends—
They chased all the girls in our classes and began doing a lot of things,
Stuff that I would not dream of in a few hundred million way years—
Afterwards they were satisfied with ‘unsatisfaction,’

And I watched that part from a distance—
I was watching them from off coast on the boat made of arts and crafts while they climbed
Among the blunt little concrete cylinders that had nothing but black space inside,
And met the lighthouse, all green and white and black and brown and blue,

Bounded by time and by time and again, clicking away the time to start
Its own kind of birthing, deliverance of mass particles of ever failing light,
Of fire and brass burning away the evening hours—
That’s a new kind of thing I’ve never tried—it’s you-know-what, those tastes