I did not see your face
at the end. You slipped
away unseen, unknown.
I would rediscover you
to fully understand
the meaning
when I see you now—
our yearly visit,
the residue of life—
our strangers' paradise.

I can't recall
the mistakes you made,
errors were all mine.
We thought living
between lines counted
for so much.
These days it is less
about lines, regrets,
more about easing
the way for someone,
smoothing out the rough
trail we leave behind.

I'm still watching lines,
making errors every day,
haven't got a clue
what it means
to see your face
more distinctly today—
I just want to ask 
all the questions
get all the answers
you didn't have time to give.

                     ***

After James Tate's The Lost Pilot