Song

        The song tells us of our old way of living,
	Of life in former times.  Fragrance of flowers,
	How things merely ended when they ended,
	Of beginning again into a sigh.  Later
	 
        Some movement is reversed and the urgent masks
	Speed toward a totally unexpected end
	Like clocks out of control.  Is this the gesture
	That was meant, long ago, the curving in
	 
        Of frustrated denials, like jungle foliage
	And the simplicity of the ending all to be let go
	In quick, suffocating sweetness?  The day
	Puts toward a nothingness of sky
	 
        Its face of rusticated brick.  Sooner or later,
	The cars lament, the whole business will be hurled down.
	Meanwhile we sit, scarcely daring to speak,
	To breathe, as though this closeness cost us life.
	 
        The pretentions of a past will some day
	Make it over into progress, a growing up,
	As beautiful as a new history book
	With uncut pages, unseen illustrations,
	 
        And the purpose of the many stops and starts will be made clear:
	Backing into the old affair of not wanting to grow
	Into the night, which becomes a house, a parting of the ways
	Taking us far into sleep.  A dumb love.