Plumb Line

We crossed the stage
At a date now long-etched,
Aging us as we layer our lives.

All that glittered
All that fired
All that Promethean luster

For which we strode —
Our hearts were steeds
Meant for bronze

And stone likenesses,
For volumes and for verse —
Our lives the stuff of libations

Even Ulysses would envy.
Will this twenty-five year
Check on our trajectory

Find that our idols take tribute?
Or are we re-drawn into The Line
Which brings us closer to The Archway

That gives form to what was once only the oldest story told?

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