For Schoolchildren

You know, I try, when darkness falls,

to estimate to some degree —

by marking off the grief in miles —

the distance now from you to me.

And all the figures change to words:

confusion, which begins at A,

and hope, which starts at B, move towards

a terminus (you) far away.

Two travelers, each one with a light,

move in the darkness, silent, dumb.

The distance multiplies all night.

They count on meeting in the sum.