An old dog afraid of his own shadow
In some southern town…
The story told to me by a woman going blind

It’s raining, it’s pouring,
And your heart is sad,
But you’re not about to say it.

There’ll be nothing but infinite space.
The silence supreme, the silence almighty.
Bright sky. Many stars.

Walking the streets of the city, sitting in a bar. 
Sometimes I take delight in the things I see; 
Sometimes I hardly notice what things are: 

As you look up at me and think you know
That in the light of now I’m such and such—
This light has been relinquished long ago.

A balloon drifting in a pool,
swivelling when the wind changes…

Illusions of the moonlight, pale processions
Of spirits wandering among the trees...
Cries and accusations and confessions...

I wake and feel the city trembling.
Yes, there is something unsettled in the air
And the earth is uncertain.

The houses look at one another,
a language of windows.
The violin stands above the collar. . .

There are numbers high on a building
telling the time, 12:27,
the temperature, 36.