The sidewalk is growing soft. I am growing soft.
Absence is a principle, a silence wholly.
If the moon fell, there would be no use for it.
What do we mean by “a killing effort”?
Back there, back there the darkness waits.
Everything we know is a circle.
In a dumb country, the one way is everyone’s.
And something has a chance in such a land.
Is my last friend ahead under that light?
I walk on, and watchdogs bark crossly.
The other sidewalk is softening also.
It lets me down with curious consistency.
Settling for the average of full and empty
I turn toward home, begin to hurry in the dark,
have talked myself into going back once more.
Leave a Reply