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What is there to speak of
If not to speak of love?
When the last of it has
Passed, true then to say
The motion has worn in,
No more will come, and
We will sing our orphan
World to sleep. O caravan!

A crowded train, night
Turning across itself in
The glass, the bare light
Passes of a place that
Is already gone. An end
To empire and to truth.
A gentleman that stands
Raging to nobody in the
Space between two doors.
Lights that pass and lights
That do not pass. Fugue.

Come here while I embrace
You, emergency!