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To usher in a vole or two, Or something scarier, like centipedes or silence. In the world we made I took the air most days at dusk, Inspecting those corners where rust arrests, The woodpile dreading its winter, The birdhouse vacancies and acorn hope Of azure coast, of gold coast, of delta Draining down to Blossom Swamp. We were restless in the car, restless on the launch, Restless with the plate-spinning sun at Key West, Unsettled as the mercury dared ever higher And there was nowhere to go but inside. Come inside, you said. Were we overheard? Who was leaning toward our bistro table When we bent to whisper through our wine? I believe in you, over and over: Everyone was droning it, cicada-like. 
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But it was
too late, too late for insect rock 'n' roll, Too late for crème de cacao they pawned off As rocket fuel, too late for karaoke hymns Or mercy dancing, too late the bouncer's glare. Inside, come inside, there is real music here, Old albums by the nightstand, string arrangements too, Violas scored to help you stay in love. III. In the world to come The cypress and the olive branch Are not standing in for anything They whisper only of the wind No more high-flown bouquets Just a wooden rosary A carved bench worn from worship And the strum and scratch Of wired steel  |
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