Again, you watch the white trees
bending in me, again the trembling
of the dissembling future, still
with some assembly required.
Again, the symmetrical arrival:
adesso, adesso, yes.
Then the sun wakes, hammering
the anvil clouds as its own holy bells.
The sun, panting the violet air
off the stones in its afternoon work;
hanging the city, itself washed clean as linen,
to dry over the firm, friendless earth.
Of course I asked for the pale-skied heat,
for the heavy calm, for sleep,
for neap tides, an even-keeled
existence; for, finally, a station to keep.
But the world turns under its water,
and in the morning you are gone.
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