Notes from the Air

        A yak is a prehistoric cabbage: of that, at least, we may be sure.
	But tell us, sages of the solarium, why is that light
	still hidden back there, among house-plants and rubber sponges?
	For surely the blessed moment arrived at midday
        and now in mid-afternoon, lamps are lit,
	for it is late in the season.  And as it struggles now
	and is ground down into the day, complaints
	are voiced at the edges of darkness: look, it says,
        it has to be this way and no other.  Time that one seizes
	and takes along with one is running through the holes
	like sand from a bag.  And these sandy moments
	accuse us, are just what our enemy ordered,
        the surly one on his throne of impacted
	gold.  No matter if our tale be interesting
	or not, whether children stop to listen and through the rent
	veil of the air the immortal whistle is heard,
	and screeches, songs not meant to be listened to.
	It was some stranger’s casual words, overheard in the wind-blown
	street above the roar of the traffic and then swept
	to the distant orbit where words hover: alone, it says,
        but you slept.  And now everything is being redeemed,
	even the square of barren grass that adjoins your doorstep,
	too near for you to see.  But others, children and others, will
	when the right time comes.  Meanwhile we mingle, and not
        because we have to, because some host or hostess
	has suggested it, beyond the limits of polite
	conversation.  And we, they too, were conscious of having
	known it, written on the flyleaf of a book presented as a gift
        at Christmas 1882.  No more trivia, please, but music
	in all the spheres leading up to where the master
	wants to talk to you, place his mouth over yours,
	withdraw that human fishhook from the crystalline flesh
        where it was melting, give you back your clothes, penknife,