Closed like confessionals, they thread Loud noons of cities, giving back 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 shops Past smells of different dinners, see A wild white face that overtops Red stretcher-blankets momently As it is carried in and stowed,
And sense the solving emptiness 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 air May go the sudden shut of loss Round something nearly at an end, And what cohered in it across The years, the unique random blend Of families and fashions, there
At last begin to loosen. Far From the exchange of love to lie Unreachable insided a room The trafic parts to let go by Brings closer what is left to come, And dulls to distance all we are.