Longing Afternoon

In my more distant house of dust I heard

The words I hid were speaking for themselves,

But here we only speak of plagues and worse,

The rot at the heart of aspiration,

The noble selfishness of selflessness,

The abstract signs and banners of humans

Driven to distraction by each other—

Life’s latest self-debriding tournaments.

Oh, for when we were little words, the light

On the leaves that tapped at shuttered windows,

When we were rhythms made by winds that had no ears,

And never hurt for what we heard we’d never hear.