It's coming on six o'clock
again.
The sun rehearses an elaborate
little speech, strictly
pro forma—no, wait—
it's saying something, like
Be glad it's over.
We waited for you.
I loved you,
and these were the consequences:
bright nights, lit sea,
buttered roofs, dandelion breath.
The dream of seeing it all.
Next year let's live in harm's way,
under the big top. Incongruous,
blue will find us, and the sun.
Like the growl of a friendly dog
it backs up, shivers itself
out of here …
"Never heard … anymore."
by John Ashbery (b. 1927)
