A
lady weeps at a dark window.
Must
we say what it is? Can’t we simply say
a
personal matter? It’s early summer;
next
door the Lights are practicing klezmer music.
A
good night: the clarinet is in tune.
As
for the lady--she’s going to wait forever;
there’s
no point in watching longer.
After
awhile, the streetlight goes out.
But
is waiting forever
always
the answer? Nothing
is
always the answer; the answer
depends
on the story.
Such
a mistake to want
clarity
above all things. What’s
a
single night, especially
one
like this, now so close to ending?
On
the other side, there could be anything,
all
the joy in the world, the stars fading,
the
streetlight becoming a bus stop.