Vespers
Dark
in winter at five oclock
it is the vesper time for going home.
Bark-
ing pride has put back the clock.
Our culture's but a whisper as we comb
grey
hair; put on turn's coat
pick up a briefcase full of late night thought,
say
goodbye to the conscientious goat
and hurry off to the oblivion we bought
by
exchanging our life for a mortgage.
We know we should confess but keep forgetting.
Why
is there a voltage shortage
in us at this hour, so that we're near admitting
i-
dears that are bad and tired?
On the slope to the station, yellow leaves
sli-
de beneath us on the mired
paving, fill God's own pillows. Lamplight weaves
ha-
loes round unconfessed pe-
destrians who slip, unvespered, over-
ha-
stening, half way up the
drizzling divide the commuter has to cover.
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