Closed like confessionals, they
Loud noons of cities, giving
None of the glances they absorb.
Light glossy grey, arms on a plaque,
They come to rest at any kerb:
All streets in time are visited.
Then children strewn on steps or road,
Or women coming from the
Past smells of different dinners, seeA wild white face that
Red stretcher-blankets
As it is carried in and stowed,
And sense the solving
That lies just under all we do,
And for a second get it whole,
So permanent and blank and true.
The fastened doors recede.
Poor soul,
They whisper at their own distress;
For borne away in deadened
May go the sudden shut of
Round something nearly at an end,
And what cohered in it
The years, the unique random
Of families and fashions,
At last begin to loosen.
From the exchange of love to
Unreachable insided a
The trafic parts to let go
Brings closer what is left to come,
And dulls to distance all we are.
