the sleeping gardens,
all the stopped clocks,
past quiet lanes, along a tree-lined route
coming down, down from the mountain
our car a missile as it glides onpast your home
out in the dawn, car-windows wet with dew
and no one there to see us passing over.
Are your doorways crossed? Are ours?
What kind of light will penetrate your hall?
Your thoughts are quiet as you sleep.
the sky's windows
allow a tracery of cloud to slip through.
Just a little folding of the hands a little sleep,
and poverty will come upon you like a curse.
Your sleeping garden cannot wake without you.
fast, one menacing brown cloud
flying in formation.
It's angular and brown in spite of the advancing light
and glides on well below sky level.
I am late, too late as I stumble over all the piled-up overcoats
entrance to this shelter.
All the houses lie deserted in the ruin of the day
and empty roofs point questions to the sky.
Afterwards, one boy-child lies in silence on a shelf
counting all the bodies in his head.