Lost In The Menme Poem by James McLain

Are we, 'are we not, all of us this.
So lost in the menme.

Everyone in us taking the hand in this evening her face,
while the blue night where it meets us it falls, off the world.
She of the sunset he of the dark sunrise, combined.

Distant that mountain where last I saw,
'from my window exceeds.
The sky's grasp and yet, 'You are the one, 'Occasionally.

Was there someone?
Some one else.
Some speech?
It, in old age now escapes me.

From it too you, again would you try, resown is spring asking.
The whole of love.
Why do you come to me suddenly,
I am, ' when to be sad, you feel that it is distant?

As for the book,
where I am blue, 'rolled with the balls of your feet like the dog.
Always, the statue from the bust which it always it entreats
with the sun is each evening is turned off, is the sun the menme.