A pace or two ahead.

Perhaps all our loves
are merely hints and symbols:
a vagabond-language,
scrawled there on gate-posts;
and on paving-stones, which lie
along weary roads
that others have tramped
before us; perhaps we are
types and this sadness,
which falls between us,
just springs from disappointment
in our straining search;
Perhaps we’re dreaming,
Snatching a glimpse, now and then,
of the shadow turns
that are all set to
perform on corners, always
a pace or two ahead.