On the other hand (I think) who could know
less about love than I do? And the blinds
rattle closed, and the light fails again.
Each step would be a stumble.
Should I, then, lift my voice? I don't want to.
It's late. And yet I would like for you to know,
since we have come this far together,
sister of my heart: there is more to say
than has yet been said, and in a queer way
there is justice to be done and there may be
speaking to be done for those
who have no voice.
And if, having come the bewildering circuit
of the water-glass's lip, an ant should find
his own scent before him, we might
forgive him imagining
that by hurrying forward he might find
company for the road ahead,
the homely speech
of his own people.