Then again, it could have been a lampshade,
or a vase of wheat or a stack of books.

It could have been the statue of a god
or the reflection of an owl across

the fields, but then again it could have been
exactly what it seemed to be: someone

sitting at a desk, looking out but not
at me, someone’s legendary head, though

I suppose it could have been illusion,
a floating face, imagination’s trick;

I suppose it could have been that backward
glance in time, the one we talked about this

morning at breakfast—some other then that
rhymes with now and then never goes away.