Song

The song tells us of our old way of living,
 Of life in former times. Fragrance of florals,
 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 mean, 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 pretensions 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 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.