…and i feel at a loss

there considering him (molloy, i presume) in his borrowed room and time

and back to that day between water and hills and a road where two men met not knowing one another before

water, hills, road, or perhaps, they had

one returning, one leaving

or, perhaps, not

and my narrator, the observer, there above them, gray as the stone he huddled against

it is his memory, then, of this meeting and leave-taking

his observance and forgetting of what, perhaps, was once a death foretold