The only chance poetry has,
Thinks this poem, is not that it was
Once more beautiful then,
When evening lights four summers ago surrounded
You and her in doubt—
The stranger’s echoing shout
From the darkness sounded
Like the end of something—
No, that the sound now
Which creeps into your ears
Conveys to you precisely how
Sound is where the best sights occur;
Isn’t this where poetry has been hiding for years?
Sweet speech, giving up its intricacy,
As if that slow piece by Eric Satie,
Blocking out all the hullabaloo,
Loves her best, but tonight comforts you.