Like a Shadow Play

                        Look at them waltzing at the edge of the night.
                        He’s whispering in her ear, her neck is slightly bent.
                        Round and round they go ‘till the night turns bright.
Round and round they go, far apart or holding tight, Brightly they whirl ‘till they’re done, or spent. Look at them waltzing at the edge of the night:
they’re flowing beyond what’s wrong or right bending and stretching their time (stolen or lent). Round and round they go ‘till the night turns bright.
And now they’re losing it, carried away in a flight of fancy that the dance gods might have sent. Look at them waltzing at the edge of the night
behold their mouths – eager to kiss, quick to bite, their bodies woven together. Now they leant towards you. Round they go ‘till the night turns bright:
the dancers and the dance are one, and light, mysterious; you’re not to know what it meant: look at them waltzing at the edge of the night round and round they go ‘till the night turns bright.

***


                        The Germans are right when they ask the time,
                        Saying “Wie spät ist es?”: How late is it? For
                        It is late, my oh-so-distant soul sister. One is old,
                        And full of science, to the brim. I never knew how much
                        Darkness I had in me ‘till you came,
                        Named it, and unleashed it. Immer wieder:
                        Es ist schon spät, meine liebe Schwester, aber echt
                        Dunkel wird es vielleicht nie (Over and over again:
                        It is already late, my dear sister, but really
                        Dark will it perhaps never get.)
                    

***


                        Ramon and I sat on a hill.
                        We talked to the ladies of the canyon
                        and they were all einverstanden.
                        But I do not understand.
                        We sat on a hill in the March chill.
                        The wind died down, the clouds stood still.
                        Ramon and I stood on a hill.
                    

In These Latitudes

                        down in the park a boy
                        is weeping over the sunset
                        he failed to see, as the night beyond
                        the park grows dark and
                        darker still. Don’t cry, little boy,
                        there’ll be other lost sunsets,
                        as the horizon draws nigh, and
                        new roads, straight and narrow,
                        and dazzling days beyond count, unmarked
                        in the itinerant calendar salesmen’s ledgers. Hush,
                        little boy: the day lies in wait,
                        the night is dark, the world
                        is still, right here, down in the park.