have to come, putting a sign on the door,
do not disturb for knocking
because we were out watching our city
glowing from Primrose Hill.
The sun was tossed up, round and bright gold,
and I was off my head with how beautiful
one morning, one moment, could be.
I remembered someone telling me once
that good literature comforts the disturbed
and disturbs the comfortable.
Some things so faraway, all is kept neat,
but up close it's just crawling and dirty
and how can you be sure that you are not blind?
Nobody looks you in the eye
and letters never come on time
and I was trying to read your mind
even though we are both scarecrows
with no birds to scare.
Questions but no answers, or rather
no purpose for the questions we might have
for what can a mind made only of straw
really mind about another
mind made up
until the very last straw?
We stood there, watching the city watch us
with its big spinning eye, and you said
something about justice.
I disagreed, said something back about mercy
and turning away from what you've seen
like you went blind
long enough to be kind.
The clouds were hanging in black cloaks
and none of them lonely, and nor are we,
for what these words are worth:
One for sorrow, two for delights
Tomorrow, you'll be catching all the lights.
We took the underground train home
because we thought to stop at the museum of natural history
would turn habits and thoughts that are old
into to fossils, turn fools into gold,
and turn questions into mystery.
