oh, the lull of half-past-five
in the rough streets makes them tame;
the sky is warm and cloudless…
no, not like you at all.
even youth’s last vestiges
cling and rage against all time –
even autumn comes in time
to ravage and empty
and reset all dreary clocks.

your eyes are windows to a vacant house – 
enjoy the tolling steeple on the air
as it rings and rings and calls them all inside:
alarms of ancient wars that fill those bunkers
of vacant icons and idols and promises
of some unimaginable dreamed-of safety.

your eyes are windows to vacant rooms –
yet you fill those set aside for prayers
to cloudless skies.

your eyes are mirrors, and they reflect
this vacant room, for all therein is you.
when old age comes to raze and empty
and reset a greater season, remember me
and forget my self-obsession.

pillage now what you will pillage,
and peel the cataracts from sunset.
for the lull of half-past-five,
in the rough streets,
makes me tame.



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