Whence? Whom?

We must sit now you and I
Before darkness will swirl down upon my eyes
Like an evening clouding in the Winter;
We must rest, while others, less ancient, rush
And murmur in a hush
About stressful lives and last night’s TV show
Or young-adult book characters they’ve yet to outgrow.
Shades that obscure like a deadening lecture
Of too subtle a conjecture
Begun with an uninteresting question.
No, let’s not regret we missed it.
We must rest and have our visit.

In the church they chant and pray
The Kyrie.

The cold wind that rubs its hands upon my whiskered cheeks,
The frosty air that hurts my ears and my whiskered cheeks
Shook the leaves of shadowy trees,
Moaned across wet roofs hiding the sky,
Sped south across the streets that stand in water
To press upon the shuttering window-panes
Of houses living too closely on narrow little lanes.
Because it was cold, and wet, and crisp,
It burst over the houses with a whistling hiss,
And returned never again from the night-time abyss.
It did not linger, like us, to reminisce.

Ah, there will be no more time
For the wind that hisses over roofs,
For the wind that rubs its hands upon my whiskered cheeks;
There is no time, there is no time
Left to think of words to say after others speak;
There will be no time to sin and to repent,
And no time to give money that’s already spent
On asking and answering and being wrong
And no time for knowing it all along.
No time for anger at all the insults and slights,
A million little incisions and cunning fights
Before a coffee and a bite.

In the church they chant and pray
The Kyrie.

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