Two girls discover

the secret of life

in a sudden line of

poetry.



I who don't know the

secret wrote

the line. They

told me



(through a third person)

they had found it

but not what it was

not even



what line it was. No doubt

by now, more than a week

later, they have forgotten

the secret,



the line, the name of

the poem. I love them

for finding what

I can't find,



and for loving me

for the line I wrote,

and for forgetting it

so that



a thousand times, till death

finds them, they may

discover it again, in other

lines



in other

happenings. And for

wanting to know it,

for



assuming there is

such a secret, yes,

for that

most of all.