happiness is spontaneous dancing to Bach
where are you, this sleepy funny night?
it's only evening, of course,
and maybe you are finishing your wine or your reading
and maybe you recall other wines and other books
(subconsciously, in any case)
nothing lasts that is real,
and maybe that is a good thing
like big, tall oak trees and Winnie-the-Pooh
and little brother smiling
and all of the delightful perfect logical theories
'summer night is acomen in.'