This poem is not addressed to you.
You may come into it briefly,
But no one will find you here, no one.
You will have changed before the poem will.
Even while you sit there, unmovable,
You have begun to vanish. And it does not matter.
The poem will go on without you.
It has the spurious glamor of certain voids.
— Donald Justice, from [This poem is not addressed to you.], Collected Poems. (Knopf; Reprint edition May 2, 2006)