An elegy is a love poem.
Says my uncle—who smiles into a mirror.
My uncle smiles into a mirror:
The face he worships is a palace.
The face he worships is a palace
Of wrinkles—though, nothing new to see.
Lo ti to, wrinkles are nothing new to see:
Time is a bus that’s always on the road.
I am a bus that’s always on the road:
Old lovers now mistake me for a stranger.
My lover warns: don’t make me a stranger,
Love, if what we have was ever over.
Love, if what we have was ever over,
Would we be an elegy or a love poem?