The station clock was keeping public time
Above our heads. A janitor
Who might have been the janitor of nowhere
Pushed his broom across the mottled pavement
Gathering cigarette ends, newspapers,
The dated detritus of a sleepless night,
Into a canvas bag. I yawned, I yawn
Remembering the meaninglessness now,
The empty hours and uncomfortable faces,
The marble and mysterious conversation,
The out of place old fashioned furniture
And my secret sense that this was, where I was,
A haven however strange however new.
THE MARRIAGE
The wind comes from opposite poles,
traveling slowly.
She turns in the deep air.
He walks in the clouds.
She readies herself,
shakes out her hair,
makes up her eyes,
smiles.
The sun warms her teeth,
the tip of her tongue moistens them.
Daryl Hine
