Listen

You never wake a sleeping street,
You foolish child.
You never come upon it in the night
With your noises of the day.

When light has gone
And flowers are in repose,
When grass is under lock and key
And the museum has barred its gilded door

To those who bleed from importuning,
You pause and listen to the pain apparent
In the air and accept the rhythm of its slow demise.

Regarding the word friend as an intrusion of the past,
You then lie down precisely where the earth permits.
Have I made myself clear, my only child?

January 2005

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