In the deep silence of midnight—
this ringing in my ears,
as if the world will never shut up.
Look! I have mentioned the world—
the world poets constantly invoke
in their pathetic attempts to be profound—
“Use a flower or a mountain! Be specific!”
(the teachers will not shut up, either)—
the world, ringing, or not, never says what needs to be said,
even as I name the flower or mountain—
“good, poet, very good!”—
you, of course, if you said something,
could speak for the world very well,
you, who I don’t understand but insanely love,
say something now, call me up,
you, yes, you, the one I love,
right now, phone me, write me,
say anything, anything, oh God, anything.