Meeting William Butler Yeats on the road
is like passing by a beggar on the street.
Surely, he says, surely the second coming
is at hand. People clear him, looking the other way.
He holds out his empty hat to you. He does
not want your spare change. Surely,
he says, looking into your eyes with a certainty
pitiless as the sun, surely the second coming
is at hand. What is it in his eyes?
Your own reflection, slouching.